


Kiss Me, Kill Me: A Stab at Season 3

by selenehekate



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Season 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-29
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2018-05-04 01:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 96,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5315948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selenehekate/pseuds/selenehekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Picks up right where season 2 ended. Miles, Bass, Charlie, and the others have been living with the Texas Rangers for the last three months, working to fight the Patriots. When ugly secrets come to light about "that night in Philly," the small Matheson clan splits up: Rachel leads a group to Bradbury to fight the Nanites, while Bass forms his own group to take out the Patriots. Two separate quests: could they be more connected than anyone realized?</p><p>Slow-burn Charloe goodness!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the End: Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first time writing a Revolution multi-chapter fic, so I hope you enjoy! Ever since the show got cancelled, I've had plot bunnies running through my head about what I'd like to see in season 3: the plot lines I'd want to follow, the characters I'd like to see, and - most importantly - the way I'd like to see the damn Nanites finally dealt with for good! Season 3, to me, was always going to be a sort of "fix-it" season where the show got back on track. Since we never actually got a third season (comic? what comic?), here's my take.
> 
> This fic is going to be long, and I mean ridiculously long. I'm currently about a third of the way done writing it and it's already 85k. But it's going to be full of slow-burn Charloe goodness, so I hope you can forgive me for the excessive length.
> 
> And when I say slow-burn, and I mean the slowest slow-burn imaginable. Which, I think, is exactly what most of us wanted from season 3 of Revolution. I hope I deliver. There will be Nanites and there will be Patriots, there will be swearing and secrets. But most of all, there will be deliciously flirty Charloe scenes.
> 
> Because I'm far more consistent than NBC, I've decided to post a new chapter on Wednesday every week, with the occasional "bonus chapter" to be posted as I see fit. Like today. Which just so happens to be my birthday. Charloe seems like a good way to celebrate, eh?
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_May_

She was alone in their tent when she heard footsteps behind her. Rachel Matheson smiled to herself and continued to pack her bag. Her lithe fingers danced across the edge of her pack as she felt him draw closer. “Hey.” She expected Miles to encircle her in his arms, to kiss her on the neck and whisper something witty—maybe even a little dirty—below her ear. 

Instead, Rachel felt a gritty hand on her left hip. She turned into the man—into his knife—and met his dark brown gaze as he muttered, “I’m a friend of President Davis.” Her stomach contracted and her chest felt tight. Rachel twitched and leaned unconsciously further into the arms of her attacker. His arms felt solid around her, and then they fell away. 

The man pulled out the knife and stepped back. Rachel’s body crumbled, her knees and then shoulders hitting the floor of the tent. Glancing down, she saw blood pooling on her shirt and around her side, staining the dirt beneath her body. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Rachel knew she should be worried about infection, or blood loss, or something. She knew she should call for help or try to stop the bleeding. 

The edges of her vision grew fuzzy as she panted for breath and laid her head back into the dirt…

 

_August_

The sun had started to dip below the horizon when shots rang out across the Old Miller Farm. They were sporadic at first; one or two shots every thirty seconds. Until suddenly, the air came alive with the sound of near-constant gunfire. 

Miles led a group of Texan soldiers back towards the tree-line, towards cover. Everything was going to hell. The plan had been to ambush the Patriots at the military outpost three miles north of the farm, but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. Someone had apparently tipped off the Patriots and told them that the Rangers were coming. Figures. Good luck just wasn’t in the cards, whenever he was concerned. 

Miles cursed to himself and called out to his men. “Fall back!” He gestured towards the trees and raised his riffle. “Take cover!” Dirt exploded by his feet as the Patriots started aiming at him, the clear leader. He scrambled back, taking his own advice.

The Patriots had taken refuge in the next town over, more or less holding the proud Texans that lived thirty miles east of the Austin stronghold hostage. Blanchard had ordered the men to take the town back from the Patriots. It should have been a simple operation—stealthy, quick, and quiet—but news of their arrival had evidently leaked and the Patriots were waiting for the Texans. So what else was new?

Miles ran backwards, his eyes scanning the farm for any Patriot scum he could pick off. In the distance, he caught sight of a shoulder sticking out from behind a defunct tractor. A shot to the shoulder wouldn’t kill the Patriot, but it might take him out of the fight. And besides, it was the bastard’s own fault anyway; hadn’t anyone taught him how to properly find cover? 

Bullets shot past Miles’s left ear, and he jumped backwards, disappearing behind a tree. He waited a beat, signaled for General Claire Donegan to flank him, and raised his rifle as he stepped into position. The idiot Patriot hiding behind the tractor hadn’t moved. As Donegan covered him, Miles lined up the shot, squeezed the trigger, and watched his target fall. 

“Nice,” Donegan said with a nod as they both stepped back behind the trees. 

“Thanks.” A stray bullet hit the side of the tree Donegan was hiding behind and burrowed deep into the bark. Miles winced as his men began to yell. “We’ve got to move.” 

“We can’t press forward,” Claire Donegan said. “There’s no cover.”

She was right, and he knew it. His brow furrowed and he said, “Fall back towards the wagon.” 

“Retreat?” 

Miles shook his head. Strands of black hair fell across his face, and he impatiently tossed them from his eyes. “Not today.” Another shot blasted through their tree-line, and he heard one of the soldiers yelp. “But we back off and let the others do their job.”

Donegan shook her head, but used the momentary pause in the fight to reload her gun. With a loud _click_ , the new bullets fell into place, and she cocked her rifle. “I don’t trust Monroe.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “No one does.” His fingers curled against the underside of his gun, and he glanced out from behind the trees. He could just barely make out the Patriot he’d hit lying slumped against the tractor. He’d stayed down. Good. In the distance, slumped against the old farmhouse, Miles could see six or seven more bodies. It wasn’t a clear win, but it was good enough for now. “Relay the order. Let’s move.”

 

 

Sebastian Monroe was irritated. This wasn’t particularly uncommon; it had never taken much to piss him off—some might even say Bass Monroe was a bit of a hothead—but he felt perfectly justified in his annoyance when Frank Blanchard made him to subordinate to Miles in the current raid against the Patriots. It was tone-deaf at best (though more likely than not, Blanchard’s order was a blatant insult), and all Monroe could do was bite his cheek and fall in line. Sure, he’d once been a general—a president—who had commanded an army and run a nation, but apparently none of that mattered. Apparently, he was only good enough to be a basic foot-soldier.

In truth, Bass knew exactly why Blanchard had delegated the power of commanding the Rangers to Miles and not him. General Monroe didn’t have a spotless record. He knew he’d have to earn back the trust of the Texan army—frankly, he was surprised they hadn’t outright executed him—but Bass’s acceptance of the situation wasn’t exactly the same thing as being happy about it.

Stationed near the front end of the barn that Bass was hiding behind stood one of the Patriot commanders. He was the real target of this attack; without him, many of soldiers in his unit were bound to desert; some might even be willing to share intel. 

Or, at least, that was the theory. Though who had come up with said theory was still a mystery to Bass. Miles and Blanchard refused to share any more information with him—something else for him to be pissed off about.

Still, as he crouched behind the barn at the Old Miller Farm waiting for the signal, Bass had to admit that being a low man on the totem pole had its advantages. Shots rang out near the front of the property, and he could just make out the occasional scream as men were hit. _Pussies_ he thought. He’d much rather be a minion working alone than deep in the trenches commanding idiots like Miles was.

Well, _almost_ alone.

Bass watched the commander stiffen as a knife slammed into his ribcage, tearing the flesh and spurting blood into the air. As Charlie Matheson yanked the blade out of his chest, the commander fell to the ground.

With a scowl, Bass stood. “That wasn’t the plan.”

Charlie didn’t bother looking up. Her voice was even as she wiped the blade on the grass. “I had an opening.”

“You were supposed to take out the sentries.”

She looked up, her gaze sharp. “I did.”

Bass felt his rifle knock against his hip as he started walking towards her. “Why didn’t you signal?”

Charlie’s gaze was cool as she repeated, “I had an opening.” She made her way towards him, her pace unhurried.

He knew it was idiotic to protest; he’d have done exactly the same were he in her position. Still, he didn’t like feeling useless. This was the only job Miles had given him, and now Charlie had taken it away. “But that wasn’t the plan.”

In a fluid motion, Charlie slipped her knife back into her boot and swung her crossbow around over her shoulder so it rested in a ready-to-fire position. “Don’t be an idiot.”

Bass opened his mouth to respond but shouting from the front of the barn interrupted. Three Patriots stood near the corpse of the commander. A sharp _“Hey_ ,” sounded as one of the men spotted them. As the three Patriots raised their rifles, Bass grabbed Charlie’s wrist and pulled them both behind the barn.

She winced as bullets hit the side of the structure and tightly gripped her crossbow. “I thought killing the commander was supposed to stop the foot-soldiers.”

Crouching low, Bass cocked the rifle. “That’s what Miles said.” He leaned out from behind the barn, fired twice, then returned to cover.

Charlie’s eyes scanned the back of the property, away from the men with guns. “Miles was wrong.”

“No kidding.” Again, Bass leaned out and fired two more shots. He was running out of ammo—because why give the guy you designate to be the all-important assassin spare bullets, right?—and Bass knew neither he nor Charlie would be able to get close enough to the Patriots for hand-to-hand combat without being shot down. They needed a plan B. “Charlie—“

But as he caught her gaze, she already had a finger to her lips and was pulling away to the other end of the barn. Bass followed her line of sight, scanning out through the twenty or so feet of open grass—no cover at all—and towards the enclosed horse stables. He knew her plan.

He waited until she was in position, crossbow loaded and ready. Then, with one quick nod, he leaned around the side of the barn and fired, allowing her to make a run for the stable. The Patriots never saw her streak through the open grass; she was quick and quiet against the hail of bullets Bass sent their way. From the corner of his eye, Bass saw her throw open the stable door, and in that instant, he too turned and ran for the stables.

It took the Patriots a few seconds to recover and realize that Bass had stopped shooting, and in that time he made it halfway across the field. He kept running, his gun slamming into his back with each step he took. He heard the moment the Patriots started firing again—lousy shots, the lot of them—but he didn’t slow because he knew Charlie had his back. Sure enough, not one, but two arrows shot over his shoulder. He heard a gurgled scream and assumed at least one of the arrows had connected with a lung or a throat. Charlie had already loaded a third arrow as he skidded to a stop behind the stable door.

“Make a stand?” she asked as she shot again.

Bass shook his head. “I have two bullets.” He peered out behind the door and cursed under his breath. He could count seven Patriots converging on the barn. “We’ve got a crowd.”

Charlie peered behind her into the stable. She could make out three or four different rooms: a tack and feed storage area, a grooming area, the actual stables themselves, and what looked to be a closet. “Want to draw ‘em in?”

He was set to agree when three more Patriots rounded the bend. He figured he and Charlie could easily take out six, maybe even seven. Ten was pushing it. “Cover me,” he said, before he darted into the stables. Like a good soldier, Charlie didn’t hesitate; she simply loaded another arrow.

They needed a safe way out of the barn, a back door. There was a side-door that led out into a dilapidated pen, but it was in full view of the Patriots. His eye caught a window up near the top of the building in the tack and feed room. It was way too high; they’d both probably break an ankle falling through to the other side, but this window faced the trees, not the barn, so it offered a potential escape route if he could figure out how to get them down without being hurt. His eyes roamed the building once more, taking every option in, and he hesitated on the closet. 

After quick mental calculations, Bass saw no other viable option. He turned back towards the window that would break their legs and could only hope the Patriots would be too harried to reason through their “escape.” Quickly, he stacked bags of feed on a few empty crates, climbed up so he could reach the window, and smashed through it with the butt of his gun. “Monroe?” he heard Charlie call out. He cleaned out the glass, knocked over a few odds and ends by his stack to make it obvious he had been there, and then hurried back to the stable door. Charlie was just loading her last arrow as he grabbed her wrist.

She turned on her heel and followed after him without a word, arrow still loaded in her crossbow. To her surprise, Bass led her towards the closest instead of the window or even the door. “What-“

The closet was small, maybe three feet by three feet, and the door didn’t reach all the way to the ground. About six inches rested between the bottom of the closet door and the ground, just enough space for their feet to be seen, but Bass had a plan. He placed one of the small crates from the tack and feed room on the floor of the empty closet and stood on it. “Come on,” he whispered to Charlie as he shut the door behind them. She tried to stand on the crate with him, but the whole thing wobbled. Bass grabbed the wall; as he stared at his hands, an idea struck. He swallowed—she would hate this—but pressed on. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”

Yep, sure enough, her eyes hardened as she jerked her head back. “ _What_?”

Shouting from outside the stable put a stop to the verbal fight Bass knew was coming, but Charlie still didn’t move. She just glared up at him from underneath her furrowed brow, her blood-stained blonde hair hanging around her face. He met her stare evenly, his arms open wide. It wasn’t until she heard footsteps that she made a decision.

With a wary tilt of her head that said _you’d-better-fucking-catch-me_ , Charlie grabbed Bass’s forearms and jumped, wrapping her legs around his waist. He turned, pressing her back against the wall of the storage cupboard, and angled his pistol with the other hand towards the door. Charlie, too, angled her crossbow towards the door, index finger poised on the trigger.

 

 

“Miles!” Rachel exclaimed as she threw her arms around him. He ran a hand through Rachel’s wavy blonde hair and inhaled. She smelt like hay and penicillin, but it was better than the coppery smell of blood that hung around some of his men. “You’re okay.” She buried her face in his neck, her lips pressed against his skin. Rachel had been a bit of a nervous wreck every time he went on a mission. In fact, the only way to calm her down was to let her come along via the medical wagon. In truth, Rachel had very little skill for medicine, but ever since she’d been stabbed in her own tent, she felt anxious about being left behind.

“Told you I’d be,” he said with a grin. Miles pulled back and nodded towards Gene. The old man in question sat atop the wagon being used as a makeshift field hospital. Sweat and dirt coated his face; blood coated his hands. “What’s the damage?”

Gene sighed and used the back of his wrist to wipe his brow. “Three dead. Four shot but healing. One concussion.”

“Concussion?”

“Ackerman ran into a tree,” Donegan said with a roll of her eyes as she approached. She had just completed a headcount and damage assessment. “I’m starting to think Monroe was right, God help me. We need a better training program.”

“Miles, where is he?” Rachel asked as she grabbed his arm. “And Charlie? Are they back yet?”

“I thought…” he trailed off as he glanced behind him. Miles knew that they had been successful in killing the commander of this unit; though the Patriots hadn’t surrendered like he and Frank had hoped, the commander’s death had caused enough confusion that Miles’s team could pick off the remaining men one by one. But Monroe and Charlie definitely should have been back by now. Miles looked back towards the wagon. “Gene—“

“The men are reporting activity at the back of the property,” Donegan interrupted. Her hands were pressed tightly to her hips. “They said there was a high concentration of Patriots surrounding a small structure looking to break their way in.”

With a sigh and a look of incredible wariness, Miles nodded. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

 

It had been silent for the last five minutes, but neither Bass nor Charlie had moved from their current predicament, and Charlie was starting to feel anxious. If the Patriots were watching the stables, they didn’t want to give away their positions by leaving their cupboard or making noise. But if the Patriots had run off on a wild goose chase assuming Charlie and Bass had escaped, then she wanted to get back into the fight. 

Then, there was her overwhelming desire to flee from her current position. With each passing moment, she became more and more aware of the way she was straddling Monroe’s left hip, her right hand locked around the back of his neck for balance. She was aware of the way her breasts were pressed against his chest and his hand was holding onto her waist. She could only be silently grateful that his head was turned to stare down the door so she didn’t have to look at his smug little face. 

Suddenly, she felt his hand tighten on her waist, squeezing her almost painfully; then his hand dropped lower to cup her ass. “ _Hey_!” she snapped in a low whisper.

With a roll of his eyes, Bass turned to face her. “It’s a better grip,” he muttered.

“I’d rather fall.”

“Be my guest, go get yourself killed.”

She held his gaze, her blue eyes icy as she said, “I’d rather be at the mercy of the Patriots than let you cop a feel.”

But to her annoyance, Bass only huffed a silent laugh. “Please. Even I’m not crazy enough to enjoy this.” He turned his head to face the door, but she wasn’t done with him yet.

“Just crazy and bloodthirsty enough to put us in this situation.”

His eyes snapped back to hers. “What does that mean?”

“If you hadn’t thrown a hissy fit—“ 

“A _hissy_ fit?” Incredulousness penetrated his voice.

“Because I killed the commander instead of you, we could have snuck back to the main fight before anyone noticed the body. But _no_ , you had to whine about not getting to kill someone. Like a psychotic child.”

He opened his mouth to retort, but she shifted her hips against his, and he suddenly became very aware of how his hand was on her well-sculpted ass as she clung to his body with her legs and her arm. Her head was pressed against the wooden wall behind her, and she’d somehow slid an inch or so down, so that her hair was messed up and her face was level with his. He swallowed, and he felt his hand holding onto the gun waver every so slightly. But at the fire in her eyes and the way her nails started to dig into the back of his neck, Bass snapped, “We are supposed to be a team.”

“So?”

“So we’re not a team if you do my job for me!”

She scowled, her brows coming together into a crumpled line. “The job got done.”

“You were reckless, Charlotte.”

“Pot meet kettle.”

“Look—“ The sound of the stable door opening shut them up. Both grew rigid as their previous anger was forgotten. Several sets of footsteps began to echo towards them. With the briefest of glances at each other, Charlie nodded her head towards the left, and Bass instantly knew what she meant: she would aim for anyone on the left, and he would aim for those on the right. They only had a few shots if they were discovered; they had to make them count.

“—be here somewhere. It’s definitely their handiwork.”

Bass was taken aback by the voice. It was familiar, and what kind of idiot soldier would speak and give away his position while he’s searching for the enemy? Come to think of it, this guy sounded a lot like— “Wait,” Bass whispered as the door to the cupboard started to open, but it was too late.

Miles jumped back as an arrow shot straight into the cupboard door, going wide and missing his head by a few inches. When his eyes focused on the interior of the cupboard, he froze. There was Charlie, legs wrapped around Bass’s hips, pressed against the wall, her crossbow arm pinned to the wood in Bass’s white-knuckled grip. The pair of them both stared back at Miles; Charlie looked guilty—she was biting her lower lip, her eyes wide—but Bass sent him a cheeky smile. “Hey there, Miles.”

“What the _fuck_.” And that was when Rachel Matheson stepped onto the scene.

Instantly, both Charlie and Bass sprang into action. He let her crossbow arm go and she flung her legs out from around his waist. The sudden movement caused the crate to tip over, sending the pair crashing into the wall of the cupboard. Bass rubbed his head where it had hit the wood and cursed, only to open his eyes and find Charlie glaring back at him. She was trapped half-underneath him, and his hand had somehow landed on her hip. “Seriously?” she said.

“Rachel—“

Bass felt a tug on the back of his shirt and the next thing he knew, Rachel Matheson had slammed him into the other wall of the cupboard. “What the _hell_ do you think you’re doing?” Her face was inches away from his, her eyes wide and manic as she ground her finger into his chest. “Don’t touch my daughter.”

Bass looked over her shoulder and caught Miles’s eye. “Control your guard dog.” Her open palm connected with his cheek and he barked, “Hey!”

“You don’t get to touch her, to take advantage of her.”

Charlie tugged on her mom’s arm, but Rachel wouldn’t budge. “Mom—“

“She is _my_ daughter, not something of Miles’s that you can steal like you did that night in Philly.”

Rachel was scary, but Bass’s eyes were on Miles and Charlie as the pair of them registered what Rachel had said. He watched as one corner of Charlie’s mouth raised in disgust and she furrowed her brow. It didn’t surprise him that Rachel had never told Charlie about their one night stand in Philly; Charlie wasn’t like other girls, but talking to her mom about sex was probably still a giant _nope._

However, it was Miles who scared Bass the most; his face was blank, empty as he said, “Bass, what’s she talking about?”

It was only then that Rachel realized what she’d done, what she’d said. She let go of Bass and turned. “Miles—“

“You two… You and him?”

“I didn’t want to. He made—“

“Oh, that’s bull and you know it,” Bass said with a curl of his lip. “Don’t go turning me into a scapegoat rapist to suit your needs. You came to me.”

“You held me prisoner,” Rachel protested. She looked towards Charlie, then Miles, but neither moved. “I was at your mercy—“

“You were looking for comfort after Miles left you. Left _us_ , is how I believe you put it.” Rachel’s eyes were wide as she moved towards Miles, but he was only looking at Bass. This was good; he had a chance to explain. “She wanted comfort, and sympathy, and to get me drunk and happy enough that I’d let my guard down so she could escape. She came on to me, and I was stupid enough to let her.”

Her head snapped around to look at him. “You’re a monster.”

“At least I’m not rewriting history.”

“Go to hell,” Rachel spat. But when she turned to face her family again, she saw that Miles was gone and Charlie had her arms crossed over her chest. Bass felt his stomach turn. Miles had walked out on him again, but at least he wasn’t in Rachel’s shoes. Rachel faced her daughter. “Charlie—“

“Is there anyone you _haven’t_ slept with?” she asked with a raised brow.

Rachel stepped back as though she’d been slapped, “Charlie—“ she tried again, but Charlie stepped away.

“Get back to the wagon, Monroe,” Charlie said, her eyes not leaving Rachel’s. “Now.”

To her annoyance, Monroe chuckled as he grabbed his fallen pistol and hiked his rifle more securely onto his shoulder. “Whatever you say.”

She waited until Monroe was firmly out of earshot before she spoke, keeping her voice low. “And you wonder why no one trusts you.”

“Charlie, let me explain.”

“All the secrets, all the lies. Just when we think we’re finally getting the full truth, some other stupid skeleton of yours comes tumbling out of the closet. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“You can’t trust him, Charlie,” Rachel said. Her voice was harried as she leaned in towards her daughter, but again Charlie stepped away. “He’s a monster, he killed Danny—“

“This isn’t about Monroe! This is about you bringing six levels of crazy into our lives with all of your secrets and hidden agendas, and I can’t take it anymore.” Charlie shook her head and slung her crossbow onto her back. “I can’t.” She walked away without another word, leaving Rachel alone in the cupboard as a silent tear fell across her cheek.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of this story (and my own damn need to organize everything), we're going to say that this take on "season 3" will have 12 total episodes, complete with 5 acts (or chapters) each. But I'll post everything under this one story to make life a helluva lot easier.
> 
> The title of the first "episode," "In the End," comes from a Linkin Park song.
> 
> Please drop me a note to let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!


	2. In the End: Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so grateful for the amazing feedback this story has already gotten; thank you so much for being such a warm and inviting community! I had a lot of fun reading the comments about the Bass/Charlie scenes, as well as your collective take on Rachel. I hope you enjoy this next chapter!

_Philadelphia_

_General Sebastian Monroe stood poised at the window of the large Victorian-style estate that the Republic had been using as headquarters. Winter had set in, and crisp white snow had settled along the ground. It was still pure and untouched in the yard underneath his window; no one had set foot through the area. He knew it wouldn’t last._

_A crystal tumbler of whiskey sat firmly in his hand, but for the first time in awhile, the general wasn’t interested in drinking. What was the point? He heard the grandiose white double doors behind him open and the sound of two sets of footsteps enter. One set was strong, marching across the hardwood floors. The other set of footsteps was soft and treaded lightly. Silence filled the room as the marching set of footsteps backed away, and still Monroe didn’t turn around, nor did his guest speak. In fact, his guest didn’t speak until the second person had exited the room completely, shutting the doors behind him. “Bass,” she said. “What’s going on?”_

_His lips curled up into a smirk at Rachel’s strong defiance, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t face her. “I figured we should have a chat.”_

_“Is this some new game you two are playing? Trying out good cop, bad cop?” He reminded silent, his eyes locked on the sky above. It was growing dark, but he could still make out a thick grey cloud-cover in the sky. The clouds looked heavy, as though it would snow again. “Huh?” Rachel prompted when he didn’t respond. “He tortures me, and then you offer me a drink? Is that it?”_

_One word was all he could manage. “No.”_

_“Get Miles out here,” Rachel said. Her voice was still strong, but Bass could detect a tremor of fear underneath it all, and he almost smiled. “Now. I don’t want to play.”_

_“Miles isn’t here.”_

_He heard her give a cold, dry laugh. “Right. He’s not listening in? Waiting to rip away whatever sanctuary you offer? Because that sounds exactly like what Miles would do, like what you would do.” Maybe it’s what General Monroe would do, but was he really a general if Miles had left? What was the point? “Look at me, dammit!” She said with a raised voice—she’d yelled like an actual human being instead of that irritating faux-therapist-yell she often used—and it startled Bass enough to make him turn around and face her. As Rachel took in his sunken eyes and swallow cheeks, she paused, her voice going soft. “What happened?”_

_“Miles left.”_

_She blinked. “Left? What do you mean left? Like he went out, or—“_

_“I mean he left,” Bass said, setting his tumbler down on the wooden table next to the decanter. “He left the Republic. He’s gone.”_

_Rachel stepped back, her eyes growing wide as her hand came up to rest on her chest. “But… he’ll be back, right?”_

_With a snort, Bass said, “He tried to kill me, Rachel. I’m thinking he’s gone for good.”_

_She couldn’t comprehend what Bass was saying; Miles wouldn’t leave, not without her. Yeah, he’d had her tortured and interrogated, but he couldn’t just leave her behind. She was only here because of him. She’d left her family because of_ him _. “But… what about me?”_

_Bass folded his arms behind his back and stepped up so that they were face to face. “Clearly, he doesn’t care anymore.” He walked past her, leaving her frozen and speechless. As he approached the double doors, Bass gave one quick rap on the wood. “Tom.” The doors opened and Tom Neville appeared. “Bring Rachel back down to her cell.” He couldn’t handle looking at her anymore because she was tainted in Miles—she was his guest, his prisoner, his lover. Even now, after having been tortured and abandoned by him, Rachel still wanted Miles back, always Miles. It was the one thing they had in common._

 

 

“A grinning man. A grinning man,” Aaron muttered to himself as he paced back and forth along the floor of their tent. The grass underneath his feet had started to wear away, and his hiking boots were now scuffed with bits of dirt. Aaron’s hands were clasped together behind his back and his eyes trained at the worn path he was making in the earth. “A grinning man—“

“Stop. Just stop,” Priscilla said with a shake of her head. She stood up from her cot and wrapped her arms around Aaron’s waist. She’d been watching him panic and pace ever since she’d been released from the Nano’s control, and she couldn’t take it anymore. “You’ve been obsessing over this for the last three months. You have to stop.”

“It feels familiar. I should know—“

“And do what exactly, Aaron?” She burrowed her head into his back and shut her eyes. She too wanted so badly to stop the Nanites and save humanity from whatever the Nanites had planned, but that was hardly a feasible dream. The Nanites were too powerful, too all-knowing. Priscilla knew they had no chance to win. “We don’t know where they are, or what they’re planning, or how to stop them—“

Aaron turned and took Priscilla’s chin in his hands. “Is there anything else you haven’t told me? Anything at all?”

Annoyed, she pulled back and swatted his hand away. “No.”

“A grinning man,” Aaron muttered again. “A grinning—“

“Why don’t you focus your energy on something else, something more worthwhile?”

Aaron blinked and stopped his pacing. “Like what?”

“Like helping Rachel.”

Aaron sighed and ran a hand along his chin and through his beard. “Rachel’s fine. She recovered from the stab wounds weeks ago—“

“Physically, sure, but not emotionally.” Priscilla sat back down on the cot and drew her knees up to her chest. “You know she’s unstable. She’s a basket case, barely holding it together.”

“She’s not that bad—“

“You said she’s lost it before.”

Aaron sighed. It was hard to forget about her near catatonic state after the missiles took out Georgia and Philadelphia. “Well… Yeah. But she’s not that bad this time. She’s almost normal.”

But Priscilla was already shaking her head. “She’s scared and paranoid. She can’t be alone. Miles says he has to hide her away any time a new person comes into camp because she flips, saying they’re going to kill her—” 

“She went on the raid today—“

“Because she wants to be there in case Miles or Charlie or Gene gets hurt! She threw a fit the last time they tried to leave without her.” Priscilla tilted her head to the side and asked point-blank, “Isn’t she your friend?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“No buts. If you care, then you need to help her. Talk to her. It’s more productive than worrying about the grinning man and the Nanites.” She stood once more and laid a hand on his shoulder. Her lips turned upwards into a sweet smile, and she rose up ever-so-slightly on her toes. She needed him to hear her, to really hear her. “Fight the battles you can actually win.” It killed her to do it, but Priscilla rolled back onto her heels and stepped away. He needed to breakthrough on his own. 

Aaron watched as she exited the tent; he knew she was trying to be helpful, trying to get him to focus on their present lives, but he couldn’t forget about the torture and pain he’d endured in the past. The Nanites were his responsibility. He feared for the future of the world if they weren’t stopped. “A grinning man,” he muttered to himself once more. He began to pace.

 

 

The first thing Connor Bennett noticed about Bradbury, Idaho were the lights. The last time he’d seen artificial, electric lights shine in the windows of a suburban house, he had been very young; Connor had almost forgotten the way they flickered as people passed in front of their windows, or the way the power surged when you turned on too many lights at once. Every lit window that shone in the black night sky felt to Connor like a little bit of his childhood, of hope.

Reluctantly, he passed the binoculars back to Tom Neville. “I can’t believe it,” he said. From their vantage point behind a grassy hill a few miles away and without the use of binoculars, the town was shrouded in darkness, but Connor could still see a few small pinpricks of light. “You were right.”

“I told you.” Neville tucked the binoculars back into his bag. “When will you learn to trust me, boy?”

To be fair, Connor didn’t necessarily have a good reason to trust Neville yet. Three months of traveling with the strange man hadn’t exactly created a wealth of confidence. At best, Neville was withdrawn, spacey, and terrible with a sense of direction. He’d spent most of the trek either flipping maps over and over—turning them in circles—or talking to himself while Connor was supposed to be sleeping. They’d both gotten lost more than once, and Connor had just begun to lose faith in the man when they happened to stumble across Bradbury. To be honest, Connor thought it was a miracle Neville hadn’t accidentally walked them off of a cliff first. “So what now?”

“We wait until dawn,” Neville said. He leaned his back against the embankment of the hill and tucked his arms under his head. “Then we move in.”

“Just like that? You aren’t at all suspicious?”

Connor watched as Neville’s eyes locked on a tree in the distance. The older man visibly softened, then nodded his head once. “We’ll observe. Give it a day or so. You’re right; can’t be too cautious.” But Neville wouldn’t look at him, and Connor wondered not for the first time just who Neville thought he was talking to.

 

 

“Mind if I pace with you?”

Aaron looked up to find Gene standing at the entrance to his tent. The older man had worn lines around the edges of his face, and maybe even a few drops of blood on his pale skin, but he looked calm and happy, and not intimidating. With a weak smile, Aaron waved him in. “Priscilla send you?”

“No, just thought I’d help create some divots in the ground.” Aaron stopped pacing, his hands falling stiffly by his side, so Gene sighed. “She’s concerned.”

“She shouldn’t be.”

“She sees a little bit of Rachel in you. And frankly, I do too.”

Aaron felt his eyes grow wide, and he absentmindedly reach up to adjust his glasses. “What are you saying?”

“You’re grabbing on to this Nanite thing too hard, Aaron. You’re getting tunnel-vision.” Gene crossed his arms over his chest and stepped back. “If you can’t see the rest of the world around you, you’ll lose what you hold dear.”

Aaron blinked and drew his head back. “You mean Priscilla.”

“And not just her.” Gene sighed and shook his head. “I know you feel responsible for the Nanites—“

“For not killing them when I had the chance,” Aaron interrupted with a bitter bite in his tone.

“But you need to get over it. Take a long nap. Wallow.” Gene smiled and shrugged, before adding, “in the old days, I’d say watch a movie and eat lots of ice cream, but since you can’t do that—“

Only with a jerk and a sharp gasp, Aaron had stopped listening. In his mind, he was reliving a family trip he’d taken as a boy to a small town by a little log cabin. He recalled being afraid to go into town at night, because that was when the neon clown with demonic glowing red eyes would light up above the 3 Ring Ice Cream parlor. Aaron had hated that clown when he was a child—partly for those red eyes from hell, but mainly for the twisted grin on his face. A grin so wide, so menacing, and so very like the smile Priscilla had described. “Oh my god.” He grabbed Gene by the shoulders and thought back to everything Priscilla had told him about her Nano-induced visions. “Oh my god.”

“Aaron—“

“I know where the grinning man is.”

 

 

Tom Neville spent forty-eight hours watching Bradbury, Idaho, as he’d promised. That’s forty-eight hours seeing lights flicker on in the darkness, forty-eight hours of people watching television or microwaving leftovers. He saw no evidence of any nefarious activities; no armies being formed, no weapons of mass destruction being built, and no hierarchy of any kind. For all intents and purposes, Bradbury looked like any sleepy and cheerful pre-Blackout town. It was perfect.

Too perfect. “You’ve seen for yourself, Dad. Bradbury has a lot to offer you. Go check it out.”

Neville spared a glance at the ghost of his dead son. Jason was smiling—a soft grin that barely showed his teeth—and it was that more than anything else that made Neville wary. Jason hadn’t smiled much when he’d been alive, if at all. No matter how much Neville may have wished for his son’s return, he couldn’t believe that Jason’s ghost would suddenly be a positive and optimistic being. Neville grimaced and glanced back towards the town. No, whatever this ghost-thing was, it looked like Jason but it couldn’t mimic his features exactly.

“Look at that,” Connor said, his mouth hanging open. “Ice cream. I remember ice cream. I used to love ice cream.” Neville rolled his eyes. It was hard to believe the boy was a Monroe; Connor was too green, too naive. Connor turned onto his side and said, “Look, I think we should go in. Nothing’s happened—“

“Yet,” Neville responded in a sharp voice.

Connor scowled and faced the town again, but Jason’s spirit—or likeness or imprint, or whatever the hell he might be—suddenly was within inches of Tom’s face. The fake Jason smiled with hooded eyes and leaned in to whisper, “Listen to Connor, Dad. It’s safe, I promise.” Jason sat back. “I just want what’s best for you.”

Neville fought the urge to scoff; he didn’t buy that line for a second. But the spirit did help him realize one thing: whatever force was conjuring up his dead son, it wanted him in Bradbury. Maybe the only way to find out why was to follow along like a good little solider. So Tom planted a smile on his face and said, “You’re right.” To his left, he saw Jason smile, but Neville turned to face Connor’s open mouth and raised brows. “Let’s go.”

 

 

Sebastian Monroe was covered in dirt, bloodstains, and a thin sheen of sweat as he left the debriefing tent after conversing with Blanchard. Once the battle had ended, the long trek back to the rebel Texas basecamp had been particularly silent; Charlie wasn’t speaking to him or Rachel, Rachel wasn’t speaking to him, and Miles wasn’t speaking to anyone. Though he didn’t blame the Mathesons for not knowing what to say in this situation, Bass was thoroughly pissed off at Rachel for spilling the beans about their night in Philly so shamelessly. After the disastrous affair had come to a close, the two of them had silently come to an agreement to never speak of the matter again, or at the very least to hide it from Miles.

Bass sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He should have known crazy-pants Rachel wouldn’t be able to keep her trap shut; she’d always had a flair for the dramatic.

Shouting from inside one of the tents had Bass slowing his pace; vaguely, he could recognize Aaron’s stubborn tone and Priscilla’s exasperated responses. “—now we know! So we have to go and fight—“

“It’s not our problem, Aaron.”

“It’s important to me, I feel responsible.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I _do_.” Bass stopped walking completely at the high register of Aaron’s voice. “That should matter to you; you should have my back.”

“I do! And I will, I always will, but—“

“Bass.” 

The one word whispered against the backdrop of shouting caused Monroe’s shoulders to lurch forward as he spun around. His throat felt dry. “Miles.” He swallowed. “What are you—“

But Miles’s eyes were unfocused as he looked just over Bass’s shoulder. Miles brushed past him. “Come with me.”

If it were anyone else, Bass would have questioned the order. He would have made some snarky comment and wrapped his hand around the hilt of his machete, just in case. But for Miles, Bass simply nodded and fell into step behind him.

Miles led them to a yellow tent near the back edge of the camp. This was where the Texan army placed important visitors when they came for overnight diplomacy trips. As the pair entered, Bass noticed Miles’s coat hanging off the back of a wooden chair and a rusted silver flask laying on the bed. Bass’s lips curled as he put the pieces together. “I take it you left the missus.”

“For now,” Miles replied with a sigh as he kicked off his boots. For a moment, Bass thought it felt like old times, like maybe he was forgiven. Then Miles looked at him with cold, hard eyes. “You’re not going to try and sleep with her again, are you?”

With a low growl, Bass said, “Come on, Miles. You know that’s not what happened.”

“I don’t know a damn thing. You never told me.” Miles paused and grabbed the flask. “You should have told me.”

“We weren’t exactly talking, after the fact. You tried to kill me, remember?”

“Rachel. You slept with Rachel. My Rachel.” Miles shook his head and hunched his shoulders. His chin fell towards his chest as he stared hard at the ground. “Why Rachel?”

Bass hesitated and struggled to keep his voice even. “She was there. You weren’t.”

Miles swung his right arm out, chucking the flask across the room. It skidded underneath the tent flaps and out into the grass. “You think that gives you the right to fuck her? My girl?”

“You left her, Miles.” Bass felt his shoulders rise as tension flooded his body. “She wasn’t yours anymore.”

“She loved me, not you.”

“But you weren’t there for her! What was she supposed to do—“

“Oh, listen to that crap,” Miles said, physically waving the words away. “Is that how you justify this? How you justify Emma?”

Bass stepped back as his voice became incredulous. “What does Emma—“

Miles stood, sweeping his arms out in a grand arc. “She was mine first, but you screwed her behind my back.”

“I was a kid, this is completely irrelevant—“

“You always take what’s mine, and you have ever since we were kids.”

Bass rolled his eyes. “Nice Miles. Real mature.”

“Did you make Rachel feel like she had no choice?” Miles spat. There was fire burning behind his eyes, a sneer curling at his lips. “Did you make her think you were the next best thing so she better give in, or else?”

In a flash, Bass grasped a fistful of Miles’s shirt and stood nose-to-nose with him. Bass’s nose was wrinkled in a snarl, his eyes wide with fire. “Don’t you say that, don’t you ever fucking say that. You know I’m not a goddamn rapist. We may have done some despicable things in our republic, you and me, but I never crossed that line, _never_ , and you know it.”

Silence filled the tent as Miles took in Bass’s tense form: the way Bass’s knuckles wrapped around the shirt he held were beginning to turn white, the way Bass huffed air out of his mouth, the way his cheeks and forehead were tinged pink. After a brief pause, Miles sighed and conceded. “Yeah, I know.” Slowly, Bass let go of Miles’s shirt, and both men backed away to separate ends of the tent. Bending down, Miles picked up his flask. “It’s just easier. Thinking she didn’t want to. It’s easier.”

Bass felt his body physically contract as his shoulders rounded in and his chest caved a little. Miles would rather think poorly of him than think poorly of Rachel. Just like that, Bass knew where he stood in his so-called makeshift family. He shouldn’t have been surprised; Miles had always cut Rachel way too much slack whenever she screwed up. Clearly, this wasn’t any different. 

Adapting to living in Texas had been hard for him, but this… What hurt Bass the most wasn’t that he was a subordinate soldier in Blanchard’s army, or that he had no power within this new Texas system. It wasn’t that everyone looked at him as though he were evil incarnate or that he hadn’t had sex in months because the Texan women were too afraid or angry at him. It was that Miles cared for Rachel more, and he probably always would. “It’s easier, Miles. But it’s a lie.”

But Miles wouldn’t look at him again, and Bass was already moving towards the exit when his friend said, “You need to leave.”

 

 

If Neville’s guard hadn’t been up before, it sure as hell was raised when he and Connor were met at the metal gate to Bradbury, Idaho by Edward Truman. The smug little man with the flippy hair and a mouth constantly turned down at the corners waved them in through Bradbury’s front gate. He was out of his old Patriot uniform, instead wearing a button-up white shirt with a skinny black tie and black slacks. Sweat stains covered his armpits, and he looked like he was roasting in the late summer heat, but Truman was still smiling in greeting. “Welcome! It’s so great to so you again.”

Last time Neville had checked, Truman more or less wanted him dead. “Absolutely,” Tom said with a toothy grin. “Good to see you too, Ed.” 

“And you! Connor, right? We’ve been waiting for you too.”

Startled, Connor stepped back. “How do you know my name?”

“I knew your father. Your real father,” Truman said as he placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder; Connor winced at the sudden touch, but Truman didn’t notice. “You’re the splitting image, you really are.” Truman clapped his hands together once. “You’re both going to love it here, everyone does. We just have to go over a few rules first.”

“Rules?” Neville drawled with a single raised brow. Mentally, he was wondering just how quickly he could pull out his gun if need be. It seemed awfully fast for the welcoming committee to turn into the police, after all. “What kind of rules?”

“Nothing outrageous, don’t you worry. Just some…” he hesitated, “odds and ends, you see.”

“Such as?”

“Everyone has full access to power in Bradbury!” Truman swept his arms out towards the town. “All we ask is that you do your fair share. Work a little to maintain the town; keep it nice. Clean up after yourself and help procure food.” Truman shrugged. “In exchange, all residents receive modern comforts like electricity, television, even cars and iPods.”

Connor’s voice was tinged with awe. “That’s amazing.”

“We do have a strict no-fighting policy,” Truman said with a slight frown. “It’s very important to the homeostasis of this environment.”

Neville’s lips pursed together; that didn’t sound like the Truman he remembered. But then, the Truman he remembered had almost never smiled. “I see. And what were to happen if we break these rules?”

Truman shrugged. “Not to worry. You’ll have a meeting with the elected town officials and they’ll work out some kind of… community service project.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” Truman paused and tipped his head to the side. “We will, unfortunately, have to relieve you of your weapons. To help combat any urges to fight, of course. You understand, right?”

This was too easy. Power, a clean bed, television, society? All were ready and available to him, and for what? Just his guns? It was such a small price to pay. But Truman was too happy, too cheerful, and the specter of his dead son wanted him here. Something wasn’t right.

Connor pulled his gun out of the back of his pants and handed it over. “Sounds good to me.” Neville rolled his eyes; idiot boy clearly needed a stronger father figure than he’d had if he wasn’t the least bit suspicious.

“Great, thanks!” Truman turned to Neville. “Well?”

That was when the ghost Jason appeared to him again, standing right over Truman’s shoulder with a wide grin. He was just behind the gates, and for a moment, Neville thought that if he got close enough, he might be able to touch the boy. “Come on, Dad. This is where you’re meant to be.”

His son—real or not—was right. For better or for worse, Bradbury was where Tom needed to be at the moment. So with a crooked grin, he handed his gun over as well.

“Splendid!” Truman said. He popped open the metal gate and gestured into the town. “Let me show you around. After you.”

As Neville and Connor entered Bradbury, they saw hundreds of men and women chatting happily to each other as they laid bricks for a solid, strong wall to replace the flimsy metal gate that surrounded the town. Classical music was playing softly from a boombox. Christmas lights were strung up on some nearby houses—they’d been left on even though it was day, but the residents weren’t paying the electricity bill, so what does it matter? Everything seemed perfect; the people were happy to be there, happy to be working, and they all seemed to get along well. As Connor and Neville walked through the streets towards the center of the town, Connor leaned over and whispered, “We could use these people to build our army.”

Quickly, Tom reached out and grabbed a hold of Connor’s upper arm. “Quiet,” he said, a false smiled plastered on his face. “Don’t say another word about that.” He glanced around to make sure that no one else could hear him. “We don’t want to show our hand too early.”

 

 

Charlie found Aaron later that evening sitting alone by the fire. He was staring at his hands, his lips moving slowly as he mouthed words Charlie couldn’t make out. With a slight frown, she sat down beside him, but he didn’t react to her presence. “Hey,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jumped, his eyes going wide behind his glasses as he looked at her. Charlie tried to conjure a friendly smile, but her brow was furrowed in concern. “You hear about all the craziness? My mom and Monroe? Who would’ve guessed, right?”

Aaron’s hands fell into his lap. “About that, how are you doing?”

She shrugged, stretching her legs out in front of her. “When it comes to my mom, I stopped being surprised long ago.” She paused and titled her head to the side before asking, “What about you? You good?”

Aaron took a deep breath, his eyes dropping back down to stare at his closed fist before they flickered up to look at the fire. “Yeah.” Charlie watched as a reflection of the flames danced across his glasses, hiding his eyes behind streaks of red and orange light. “Listen, Charlie… Don’t be mad.”

“About?”

“I figured it out. Where the Nano are.” Charlie’s brows rose, but Aaron still would not look at her. “I have theories on how to stop them… Vague ideas that might not pan out,” he acknowledged with a nod of his head, “but ideas nonetheless.”

Her voice was cold as she repeated, “Ideas.”

“And…” he took a deep breath, “Fear. A lot of fear. I know what the Nano are capable of. They can destroy humanity if they aren’t stopped, and I think I’m one of the few people left alive in this post-apocalyptic hellhole that possesses the technical know-how to do anything.” Charlie knew where this was going, so she was already shaking her head when Aaron finally looked her in the eye. “Priscilla and I are leaving in a couple of days. We’re going to stop the Nano.”

“No.” The word came out firm, like a command.

“I have to—“

“No.”

“Charlie,” Aaron said. He leaned back, angling his face so it was level with hers. “I have to do this. I can’t stay here, fighting the Patriots. I’m useless. Okay? I’m crap with a gun, I hate killing people… Staying here in camp day after day doing nothing… I can’t. I have to go. I have to help any way I can.”

This time, it was Charlie who looked away. “I don’t want you to leave,” she said, her voice bitter. “Everyone leaves.”

Aaron reached for her hand, and she felt him press something into her palm. She looked down to find the grey pendant secured on a small black rope. It was the pendant her father had once given to Aaron over two years ago. The pendants hadn’t worked in over a year; she’d forgotten all about them. Charlie met his eyes and saw that he was smiling. “I’ll be back.”

“You still have this?”

“Of course,” Aaron said with a shrug. “It doesn’t work anymore but…” he hesitated before squeezing her hand. “It’s a cool souvenir. Better than Mickey Mouse ears, anyway.” Charlie blinked in confusion, but Aaron pressed on. “Call it my promise. You hold onto that for me until I come back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 3 of "In the End," in which Charlie confronts Bass about his past infractions, will be posted on Wednesday.


	3. In the End: Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who has read and commented so far!

Rachel spent the next few days following the Rangers’ return from the scrimmage with the Patriots at the Old Miller Farm sitting in the grass in front of her tent. She stayed positioned there like a guard, hoping that Miles would walk by or send someone to collect the rest of his things. She didn’t know where he was staying—no one would tell her—but she thought that at least if she stayed awake in front of her tent, Miles couldn’t sneak past her and collect his belongings without her knowing.

It took him nearly two whole days to come. In that time, Rachel’s skin had turned pink from the sun and her eyes were hooded and bloodshot from a lack of sleep. Her fingers shook as she brushed the hair from her cheeks, and her stomach throbbed from a lack of nutrition. She was so far gone, in fact, that it wasn’t until Miles had wrapped his hands underneath her armpits and was dragging Rachel into her tent that she even noticed him. “Come on,” he muttered. “Let’s get you inside.”

“Miles! Miles, wa—“ She was cut off by a coughing fit, one that sent her chest into spasms. Her throat was dry, and it kept aching, until she couldn’t stop coughing. Miles wouldn’t meet her eyes as he set her down on the cot, but he did hand her his canteen. 

She drank the water quickly, chugging until it was gone. Only then did Miles speak. “Why’d you do it?”

Rachel coughed once as she screwed the lid back on the canteen. She was addled from the sun, but Rachel could still remember why Miles was mad at her. “I can explain.”

“Why, Rachel?”

She shook her head. “I wanted out, I wanted to escape. I thought maybe he would let me go—“

“No you didn’t.” He still wouldn’t look at her, and Rachel felt her lips begin to tremble. “You’re not that naive.”

Her hands fell into her lap and she said, “Miles. He…” Her eyes drifted shut. For a moment, her face softened and she could pretend that maybe her words wouldn’t destroy Miles; maybe she wasn’t about to blow up her whole life with a scrap of honesty. But no, even pre-Blackout, this kind of revelation would have killed him. “You hurt me. You hurt him.”

“So it was revenge?”

Her eyes snapped open. “No!” The room flickered in and out of focus as two days of nutrient depravation began to take their toll. “No,” she repeated with a softer voice. “It was comfort. Nothing more.”

She watched as Miles nodded once, a thoughtful look on his face. “I’m not mad.”

It was too good to be true. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not mad. Not about that.” He took a deep breath and stood, all the while avoiding her gaze. “But you should have told me. You, or Bass, or both of you, preferably. I deserved to know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I hate that you hid this from me. You always do that. And I can’t… I don’t know. Trust you, I guess. Either of you. Not anymore.”

She reached out for his hand, but he pulled it away. “Miles, please.”

“Take better care of yourself, Rachel. Next time Gene comes to me and says you’re catatonic, I won’t come running.” He was stepping out of her tent as the first sob shivered through her body. He hadn’t looked at her once.

 

 

_General Monroe’s footsteps echoed against the stone floor at a steady pace, keeping time with a funeral march. Unconsciously, Rachel shrank back in her cell before she realized what she was doing. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to sit up straight and meet Monroe’s eyes as he rounded the corner. He’d certainly seen better days; his hair was mussed and his eyes were bloodshot from drinking all afternoon. Maybe it was the dim lighting, but his skin looked pale white and sickly. Rachel took a deep, shaky breath; perhaps this would be easier than she’d thought._

_Monroe wrapped his lithe fingers around the bars of the cell and quirked an eyebrow. “You asked to see me?”_

_Rachel’s throat was dry as she forced herself to speak. “I thought you might like company.”_

_Monroe snorted. “That’s a first.”_

_She pressed on. “I know today’s been… troubling—“_

_“You know nothing. Do yourself a favor and shut your mouth.”_

_Without meaning to, Rachel felt her temper rise and she snapped, “Hey!” For a moment, she felt fear—fear that she’d overstepped her bounds and that she was about to be punished for yelling at the leader of the Republic. Instead, Monroe’s hands dropped from around the bars of her cell, a look of surprise on his face. She pressed on. “You aren’t the only one Miles left behind.”_

_She watched as Monroe stared her down, taking in her words. After a moment, the man nodded once, reached into his pocket, and unlocked her cell. He stepped inside. “Stings, doesn’t it?” He stood in the entrance to the cell, leaning against the bars and blocking the exit._

_“Like venom,” Rachel said, her voice soft. “I…” She laughed, but the sound was broken as her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, this is stupid.” She reached up to wipe at her eyes as Monroe looked on, his hands clasped behind his back. “Miles left me, and even now I’m thinking about how much I wish he were here to comfort me.” She met his gaze. “Does that ever go away?”_

_She watched Monroe work hard to keep his expression even, but she caught the slightest hint of a haunted look behind his eyes. “I wouldn’t know.” He turned his back to leave._

_Rachel shot to her feet and grabbed his wrist. She felt his body stiffen and had to force herself to calm down. “Monroe…” She hesitated, and was surprised by how easily the words came out. Even more so, Rachel was surprised by the small kernel of truth behind them. “Bass. Is it… so bad that I don’t want to be alone right now?”_

_He didn’t turn around, but Rachel knew she had caught his attention from the way his back stiffened. “Rachel…”_

_“Just… for a little while.” Her hand trailed up his wrist, his inside forearm, then his shoulder. “I want someone to comfort me… like he would.” Her hand brushed against his neck and up to his cheek, and at this point she was surprised he hadn’t pulled away. She swallowed. “Someone who knows what it’s like… to be left behind.”_

_His lips were on hers before she could fully process what was happening and she felt her back press into the bars of her cell. She kissed him back with as much ferocity as he kissed her, grabbing his hair and biting his lips. He kissed her, and scratched her, and fucked her until his pain started to melt away, but he didn’t notice that her eyes were open the entire time._

 

 

When Claire Donegan had reluctantly approached Charlie and told her to plan a new defensive strategy to assist incoming shipments cross through Patriot-occupied territory, Charlie had been surprised. Normally, Miles and Monroe dealt with these assignments together. But when Charlie had asked for an explanation on the matter, all Donegan said was, “Miles didn’t feel up to it. He ordered you to take point. That is all.”

She understood why Miles didn’t want to deal with Monroe, especially after everything that had happened. Still, she hated the way everyone always paired the two of them together: Charlie and Monroe, as though the man always needed a Matheson by his side. True, they had a fantastic ability to read each other’s movements while fighting, and yeah, she may trust him with her life in a battle, but that didn’t mean she _wanted_ to work with him.

Nevertheless, Charlie stopped by his tent in the early evening—when he’d likely still be mostly sober but buzzed enough to not be unbearably snarky—to devise a new strategy for the transports.

“Look at you moving up in the ranks,” Monroe said, a crease appearing in between his brows. “Figures.”

Charlie knew she shouldn’t rise to the bait, but she couldn’t help it. She crossed her arms over her chest and quirked a single brow. “Excuse me?”

“Nepotism,” he explained as he reached for the bottle of whiskey that sat on his nightstand. “They’d rather ask an unexperienced kid to lead the charge than the disgraced general with years of experience.”

“Can you blame them?”

He was silent as he poured himself a glass. His eyes flickered up to her face briefly before he asked, “Want some?”

“Not while we work.”

He caught the undercurrent of annoyance in her tone, so with a sigh, he set the glass down. “The Patriots know our shipping schedule by now, so there’s no getting around that. And they know our routes.”

Charlie sat down in one of the wooden chairs and laid the maps out on the table. They were crumpled and wouldn’t lay flat unless she held them down with her hands. “Any viable alternative routes?”

Monroe shook his head. “Not at this time of year. Mud season.”

Charlie nodded slowly. “So we send more Rangers to guard the wagons.”

“As a start.”

Her jaw stiffened as she looked up at him from under her brow. “What else would you suggest?”

Monroe leaned forward and pointed to a small town on the map. “Send small, undercover raiding parties a few days in advance to here,” he pointed to a different spot, “here, and here. Have them take out anyone singing the Star Spangled Banner.”

She was reluctant to admit it, but this was a solid plan. “Fine,” she said as she began to fold up the pages.

Monroe reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Let me have it.”

Charlie yanked her arm away with a scowl. “Have what?”

“Your anger. Resentment. Whatever has you talking to me like I’m less than human,” Monroe said as he began pouring a second glass of whiskey.

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

With a scoff, he slid the glass over to her and kicked his feet up on the table. “Like it or not, Charlotte, we’re frequently paired in these idiotic missions Blanchard keeps thinking up. Unless you want your resentment to get in the way of us saving each other’s asses, you’d better just man up and unload.”

Her eyes raised up to meet his for a moment, before she took the glass of whiskey. “You slept with my mother.”

“Yeah,” he paused, waiting for more, but that was it. “And?”

Charlie felt bile rising in the back of her throat, and she had to knock back the whiskey to keep it down. It burned, and her voice was uneven as she spoke again. “You took advantage of her while she was your prisoner.”

To her annoyance, Monroe rolled his eyes. “Charlotte, have you ever met your mother? She doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to.”

She slammed the glass back down on the table and shook her head. “She was your best friend’s girlfriend—“

“Yeah,” Monroe interrupted. “And guess what? He’d been keeping her locked up.” Without asking, Monroe leaned over and poured her another glass of whiskey. “And then, to top it off, he left her. We grieved. We bonded. We banged.” Monroe slid the glass over to her. “It’s how adults deal sometimes, Charlotte.”

This time, she let the glass sit there untouched as she stared him down. “That’s the second ‘kid’ crack you’ve made tonight. I’m not a child.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She ground her teeth together. “Yeah? Well your son certainly disagreed back in New Vegas.”

Monroe felt himself freeze at those words. “Nice, Charlie. Real nice.” There was just something about seeing Charlie and Connor together that drove him insane, something he couldn’t put his finger on, but he didn’t dwell on it. “You’re acting like a child. You’re holding a grudge because once upon a time, in a land far, far away, I screwed your mother.” He swung his feet down from the table. “Tell me that isn’t childish.”

“There’s no grudge,” Charlie said as she grabbed the glass of whiskey once more. “You just keep showing your true colors, General Monroe. You really are vile.”

To her surprise, Monroe actually chuckled. “Yeah, well, call me the black sheep of the family.”

“We are _not_ family.”

The words came out harsher than she’d meant them, but she doubted sugar-coating the sentence would have made any difference, given how strongly Monroe reacted. His whole body went rigid and for a moment, he stopped breathing. His eyes narrowed into a stare that felt as though it would burn her alive if he didn’t blink once, just once, and when he spoke, his voice was like ice. “No? What do you call this, then? You, me, Miles?” He paused, then added, “Your Looney Toons mom, the Pillsbury Doughboy, and gramps? That’s not family?”

“You killed my family,” Charlie said. Her voice was even, controlled, but laced with an undercurrent of bitterness. “You’re evil. A military dictator. You didn’t think twice about killing all of those people, about the parents or siblings you took out of this world. I couldn’t call someone that cruel family.” She shook her head, a cold little smile appearing on her face. “You don’t have a family.”

Yet throughout her entire speech, Monroe’s gaze had not wavered from her face, and she was unsettled to see a dangerous grin slip across his lips. “You don’t get it, do you? A military dictatorship… Killing innocents, hell, killing anyone… That was never the plan, back when all this started. Not for me, not for Miles. Never. This,” he gestured to the maps on the table before them, “this is how it started. This is how it always starts, Charlotte. I didn’t want a Republic; I didn’t want an army or a nation or any responsibility.” He slammed his glass on the table, and whiskey sloshed over the side of the glass. “Protect your people. Protect your family. That’s how it started. Just ask Miles.” Finally, he broke her gaze and, with a wave of his hand, said, “Now get the hell out of my tent,” before he took a sip of his whiskey.

Charlie felt a little numb as she gathered up the maps. Monroe didn’t spare her a glance or another word as she left his tent. It wasn’t until she was almost out of earshot that she heard the sound of shattering glass from the man she left behind.

 

 

When Tom Neville was shaken awake in the middle of the night, it took him a few minutes to remember where he was and what was going on. After all, it had been a few years or so since he’d slept in a real bed—not a cot, not a sleeping bag, but a _bed_ —with real sheets and plump pillows. It had been almost twenty years since he’d opened his eyes to see a digital alarm clock shine the time back to him in bright red numbers. It had even been years since he’d awoken to find a boy shaking his shoulder and calling out to him. For a moment, he thought it was Jason, his son. As the world came into focus, however, and Tom remembered where they were, he recognized Connor hovering over him. It wasn’t the boy’s fault, but Neville couldn’t help the tiny tinge of resentment.

“What?” Tom started to snap, but Connor’s hand shot out to cover Tom’s mouth before he could finish the word.

“Something strange is happening,” Connor whispered as he stood up. “Come on.”

Neville was reluctant to go; it was too tempting to return to his bed and fall back into easy dreams. But if the thick-headed, oblivious numbskull Connor thought something weird was happening, then he’d better go and check it out. With a sigh, Neville got out of bed and followed after the boy.

Connor led him to a window in the kitchen of the apartment they were currently staying in. Truman had informed them upon their arrival that houses were currently being renovated and that all newcomers resided in apartments—otherwise known as “communal housing”—until a home became available. They were situated on the third floor, which gave Connor and Neville a prime view of the center of Bradbury. The tile floor felt like ice against his feet, and Neville almost went back to bed purely to keep them warm. But at the look of pure panic on Connor’s face, Neville’s curiosity began to get the best of him. He peered out the kitchen window.

Rain was falling in sheets on the town, but other than that, Neville didn’t see anything noteworthy. “What am I looking at?” 

“There,” Connor said, pointing towards the park. It was a pretty slice of land, given that it was created in a post-Blackout world. There was a long strip of grass, a couple of small trees, and even a wooden gazebo being built in the very center. In fact, as Truman had given Tom and Connor the tour of town earlier that day, the roof of the gazebo had been installed. 

In the middle of the grass, Tom could just barely make out two figures talking. That in and of itself wasn’t unusual, but what caught Tom’s attention was the fact that neither of them held an umbrella—both looked like shipwreck victims, they were so wet—and yet neither appeared bothered by the rain. “It’s two in the morning,” Connor explained. “Can’t this wait until daylight? Or at least until the rain stops? Or… or that domed structure thing,” he said with a shrug as he pointed to a gazebo. “Why aren’t they standing under that?”

Connor had a point, but Tom was more interested in _who_ the two mysterious figures were. “That’s Truman,” he whispered, pointing to the shorter of the two figures. “Who’s the other guy?”

Connor was silent for a moment as they both studied the two men, before he gave a sharp intact of breath. “Isn’t that the president of the Patriots? What was his name? Daniels or something?”

“Davis,” Neville said. “President Jack Davis.” His guard was up, and all of the comfort he’d felt evaporated; he’d known Bradbury was too good to be true. Now it looked like the Patriots were definitely up to something here. They couldn’t be trusted. It might even be a trap. But even more strange… “Why would the president of the Patriots meet with someone in the rain when he surely has a nice office that would do just fine?”

Almost as if they knew they were being talked about, Truman and Davis turned their heads towards the window. Neville and Connor both ducked down out of view and exchanged glances. It was a reflexive gesture, one Tom felt a little stupid about. No lights were on in their apartment, so surely he and Connor could look out at the square all they wanted without being seen.

But when the boys looked back again, Davis and Truman were gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 4 of "In the End," in which Charlie does indeed go ask Miles about the Republic, will be up on Wednesday.


	4. In the End: Act 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little later than usual, but I still made it in time! Happy Wednesday!
> 
> Reviews make me smile; many thanks to those who have reviewed so far :)

The sun was out by the time the next morning rolled around, so when Tom Neville and Connor Bennett emerged from their apartment building, the town of Bradbury was functioning as normal. Tom and Connor had both been assigned to the work group that was building the new and improved wall surrounding the town. Though Tom had initially considered forgetting what he’d seen the night before—namely, two officials from the Patriots having a clandestine meeting in a rain storm without any cover—an easy opportunity to receive answers arrived when he realized that Truman was overseeing the fence-building project. When the lunch bell for the day rang, Tom pulled Connor aside and made a beeline for Truman. “Hey there, neighbor,” Tom called out, striving for an upbeat tone. “How have you been?”

“Quite well, Tom, and you? Adjusting to Bradbury life?”

“Absolutely, thank you for everything,” Neville said as he reached out to give Truman’s shoulder a hearty clap. By his side, Tom noticed that Connor looked very confused by the whole exchange. “Listen, Ed, I don’t mean to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong, but is President Jack Davis here, by any chance? I thought I saw him in town the other day.”

Truman hesitated before answering, but the creepy wide grin stayed on his face throughout. “Why yes, yes he is. He got in a few weeks ago, I believe.”

“Excellent.” Neville turned to Connor. “You hear that boy?” He asked. His eyes were wide, his expression hard as he encouraged Connor to play along. “The president’s here.”

It took a beat before Connor answered—the cool fall breeze swirled the leaves at his feet—but then he finally spoke. “Great,” Connor said with a timid smile.

Tom turned back to Truman, a used-car-saleman grin on his face. “You see, Ed, Connor and I tried to rescue him a few months back. The Mathesons had him all tied up. We tried to save him, but we were outnumbered and nearly killed for our efforts.” Never mind that they’d tried to rescue him so they could kill Davis themselves. Some things were better left unsaid.

Truman nodded once. “Is that right?”

“We’d love to apologize in person for failing to bring his kidnappers to justice.” Neville glanced back at Connor. “I know _I’m_ personally glad to see President Davis alive and well. I’d love to tell him in person.” His voice dropped down as his eyes hardened. “If that’s okay, of course.”

Neville wasn’t sure what alarmed him more: the fact that Truman’s Stepford smile stayed glued to his face, or that the man responded without hesitation. “Sure thing. The president would love to see you.”

 

 

“Did you hear Aaron’s leaving?”

Miles Matheson looked up from his position laying down on his cot. He was flat on his back, staring up at a tent pole that bowed and curved under the weight of the canopy above it. He’d been wondering how much longer the tent pole could take the endless force pressing down upon it before it inevitably snapped in two when Charlie’s voice broke through his thoughts. Charlie stood in the entranceway of his tent with her arms crossed over her chest. 

With a rapid blink, Miles answered. “Blanchard told me,” he replied. “Aaron and Priscilla are going tonight.”

“I don’t want them to go alone. They need protection.”

Miles sighed and briefly shut his eyes. “So go with them.”

Charlie stepped into the tent, allowing the flap to close behind her. She allowed for the silence to drag out—her eyebrow quirked, her gaze unwavering—before she got to the real reason she was there. “I need you to tell me about the Republic.”

At that, Miles’s eyes snapped open. “What?” he asked, lifting his head to look at her.

Charlie dropped her arms by her side and pressed on. “How did it start? You didn’t have an army right off the bat.”

“Why? You looking to take over Texas?” Miles asked. Upon Charlie’s silence, however, he groaned and slowly sat up. “Come on. What’s going on?”

“Answer the question.”

Her face showed an unwavering stubbornness that would make Rachel proud. Miles knew he had no choice but to relent. He leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees, curving his back into a slight hunch. “I don’t know, kid… It started as Bass and I trying to survive… Eventually we found some people. Started working together to build a community.”

“And then?”

“And then the community got bigger,” Miles said with a slight shrug. He didn’t know where this was going, but he had an uneasy feeling that he wouldn’t like the eventual destination when they got there. “More people to protect, more mouths to feed. We started training some of the guys to be soldiers so war clans wouldn’t target our group. Stragglers in the area asked to join us for safety and the feeling of living in a society again.” He sat up straight. “I don’t know Charlie. It just grew.”

“It became an army,” Charlie asked, her brow furrowed. “You’re telling me you turned a community into an army.”

Miles shrugged. “You have to protect your people, Charlie. They were our family. You do whatever it takes to protect your family, you know that. The bigger the family, the more people you have to protect.” Miles watched as Charlie took a step back, her eyes trained on the ground. Her breath started to come in short spurts, but her shoulders were rigid. “Is everything okay?” She wouldn’t say anything though, and Miles stood, as if to reach for her. “Charlie?”

She stepped back again and finally met his eyes. “So when you tortured my mother, it was all in the name of protecting your people?” He was silent, so she continued. “What about when you left her behind?”

Her eyes were so cold, her jaw set in anger, that Miles found he couldn’t look at her anymore. He focused just above her shoulder, just out of reach of her withering stare. “I shouldn’t have done that. Any of that.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.”

“Things escalated. We started making decisions that we thought would save the greatest number of people, whatever the cost. And then,” he swallowed, “well… you know what happened.”

“You held my mom prisoner because you thought it would protect people?”

He wished Charlie would just leave, or that he could rewind the last ten minutes so that he’d feigned sleep the moment she had entered his tent. Miles didn’t want to be disappointing her like this. The ugly truths of his past would certainly scar how she looked at him in the future, and frankly he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. Though he’d never actually said it out loud, it had always surprised Miles how much heat Charlie gave Bass and Rachel for their pasts, while he escaped the brunt of her anger. Looks like his reprieve was coming to an end. “It was a mistake.”

“You’re judging her for sleeping with Monroe,” Charlie said, her voice coming out in a low drawl, “but you initiated her capture and torture?”  
Rachel’s deep blue eyes flashed in his mind. When Charlie put it like that, Miles felt a rush of guilt. He was punishing Rachel for events that took place years ago, events that had been preceded by some very shitty actions on his part. She didn’t deserve it; hell, Bass didn’t even deserve to be scorned for sleeping with Rachel after everything that had happened.

He could just see her eyes, so blue, so bloodshot from tears… “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“So you’ve said.”

 

 

_“Rachel?” Monroe muttered as she nestled her head into the crook of his arm, “What are you—“_

_“Shh,” she cooed, moving her hand along his bare chest. They were lying on a small and rather uncomfortable cot in the corner of her cell, and frankly Rachel was surprised the cot hadn’t already collapsed under their combined weight. She blinked once, brushing her eyelids against his torso, and she heard him begin to mumble incoherently. “Get some sleep.”_

_“Should really get back ‘stairs,” he muttered, but Rachel could tell that his eyes were closing. If she were lucky, in a few more minutes he would be completely asleep and she could sneak through the cell door he’d left unlocked. If her luck held, Rachel was moments away from freedom._

_“Stay here tonight,” Rachel whispered. “I want you to.”_

_She knew she’d made a mistake instantly; Monroe’s muscles tensed up and his voice lost its sleepy quality. “You do, huh?”_

_She swallowed and closed her eyes. “Yes.”_

_“Funny. Even before the power went out, Miles used to talk about how much you hated signs of affection and cuddling and all that crap.”_

_“Miles is gone.”_

_She gasped as his hand grabbed her hair, pulling her head off of his chest and forcing her to look him in the eyes. Any warmth or need in his gaze was gone; the pure, crazy general stared back at her. “Yes,” Monroe said, his voice even. “He is.” She watched as the sleepy, sympathetic Bass disappeared more and more each second. General Monroe’s eyes grew sharper and his grip grew tighter. “Odd, how the minute he leaves, you suddenly have an interest in me.”_

_“Bass—“_

_“Oh, and it’s ‘Bass’ again, is it? You haven’t called me that in years.” His eyes swept over the corners of her cell. She knew the minute he spotted the key still lodged in her cell’s lock; he dropped her hair and stood. “Ah, of course.” He pulled the key from the lock. “How stupid could I be?”_

_She’d lost the game; her window for escape had officially closed, and she knew it. She sat up straight, pulling a blanket over her hips and thighs before she stared him down and said, “I don’t know, Monroe. How stupid are you?”_

_For a moment, a cold smile slipped across his face, one that curved his lips but didn’t shine in his eyes. Then he hauled off and backhanded her across the face. Her body twisted as she fell to the cold stone floor, and she just barely managed to throw her hands out in time to slow her descent. When she looked up again, Monroe had slipped his pants back on and was fastening the belt. “Well, now I know. Try anything like that again and this room will look like a palace in comparison.” He grabbed his shirt, exited her prison, and locked her in. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he left her behind. What had she done?_

 

 

The sun had set a few hours ago when Miles found Rachel. She was alone, sitting outside of their once-shared tent, and for a moment Miles wondered if she had regressed back into her catatonic state after their chat a few days prior. As he drew closer, he was relieved to see a cup of tea in her hands; at least she was drinking something.

His footsteps were muffled by the grass, but this time Rachel heard his approach. She looked up, noticed who it was, and then scrambled to her feet. “Sorry,” she muttered. Tea splashed over the side of her cup and fell on her hand. Her eyes shut with pain, but she didn’t say anything.

Miles reached for her, rubbing his thumb across the wet and warm patch of skin. She still wouldn’t look at him—and in a way, Miles knew he deserved it—so as gently as he could, Miles slid a finger underneath her chin and raised it.

Her eyes reflected the moonlight in an otherwise darkened world. Though he stroked her chin, her cheek, Rachel still looked uncertain, as though it were all a dream and he would disappear before she could wake up. His eyes softened and he leaned down so his forehead pressed to hers. It was this contact, more than anything, that seemed to convince Rachel this was real, that Miles was there with her, because she laced her fingers through his. With the briefest hesitation, Miles pressed their lips together, and he knew that everything would be all right.

 

 

Though Truman had taken Neville and Connor to meet with the president early in the morning, Truman left the unlikely pair waiting just outside of the President’s office until well after sunset. During that time, Neville couldn’t help but notice that no one went in or out of the room hidden behind a locked wooden door. It was a stupid thing to worry about, but for the sake of both Truman and Jack Davis, Neville sincerely hoped there was a bathroom in his office.

Both Neville and Connor sat anxious with anticipation throughout most of the day. There wasn’t much to do except stare out the window and at the town of Bradbury below. It looked so civilized, so normal. That, more than anything, shook Neville to the core. He wanted so desperately to believe that the vision of Jason was real—that Bradbury was a slice of heaven in a dark hell—but everything was too off, too Stepford. The townsmen, Truman, hell even the birds in the sky felt too calm for a post-Blackout world. His heart wanted everything to be real, but his gut was telling him that something was wrong.

By the time the wooden door opened for Connor and Neville, the moon had risen and fireflies had begun to flit about in the sky. There was something ominous about the way they danced in front of the hall window; Neville took one last look at the outside world before he followed Connor inside.

It was a well-furnished pre-Blackout twenty-first century style room. There were two leather armchairs facing a sturdy wooden desk. A small marble coffee table sat in front of a white plush fainting couch. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases that were half-empty—more likely than not an unfortunate side-effect of the Blackout—and a big bay window stretched out behind the desk, overlooking the town. Faded orange curtains—an unsightly color, but who could afford to be picky these days?—were pulled back, revealing a large full moon in the dark night sky.

Truman sat in one of the two armchairs; the president stood at the window. However, Neville noticed a little boy kneeling on the worn red carpet in front of the marble coffee table. It was the same little boy Neville had seen in Davis’s office back in the White House. Neville’s eyes narrowed; it had been nearly a year since he’d seen this child last, and yet the boy appeared to be the same age. Was he just a runt? Someone small for his age? Or…

The president turned around and clasped his hands behind his back. “Tom. How nice to see you again.”

Neville smiled his perfect-politician smile and nodded. “And you as well, sir. Glad to see you safe.”

“Please, sit,” Davis said, gesturing towards the second armchair. Tom exchanged a quick glance with Connor before he sat. Connor Bennett stood at attention by his side. “How’s your boy? Jason, right?”

Tom faltered, his lips moving without forming words for a moment before he said, “Dead.” There was a pause, and he added, “sir.”

“That’s a shame. Nice boy, he really was.”

Tom’s misgivings were growing by the second. The president had hated him and his son less than a year ago; Davis couldn’t have forgotten that already. A quick glance at Connor—who stood with a hand on the back of Neville’s chair—showed Tom that the young Monroe boy hadn’t noticed anything wrong; Connor looked at ease, and his eyes were busy roaming the bookshelves of the office. Absentmindedly, Neville wondered if Connor would have been a scholar had the Blackout never occurred.

“Tell me, Mr President, sir,” Tom said, forcing his attention back to the situation at hand. “How did you escape from the Mathesons? It couldn’t have been easy.”

“Ah, no. No it was not,” Davis said with a grin. “The Texas Rangers were going to have me executed. They sat me down in front of a firing squad and everything. Luckily…” he chuckled and sent a pointed look Truman’s way, “my people came through in the end.”

“You were rescued?”

“In a manner of speaking.” Then why hadn’t the Mathesons marched on Bradbury yet? It was unlike them to let their prisoners escape, especially such a high-profile one like President Davis. Unless the Mathesons were all dead, of course. But surely Davis would have mentioned that… “What brought you to Bradbury, Tom?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom watched as the little kid continued to color. He had drawn a pirate ship, the exact same pirate ship he’d drawn in the White House a few months ago. It was identical, down to the way he colored in the mast. The child was coloring in the ocean with a bright blue crayon, filling in every tiny bit of white space. Something wasn’t right… “It was an accident,” Tom said at last as he looked back at the president. “Connor and I, we were looking for a new start.”

“Well,” Davis said with a large grin, “Bradbury is the perfect place for a new start.”

“So I’ve heard.” He couldn’t resist looking back at the child, at the way he drew so quickly, so precisely… A thought entered Tom’s mind then, a horrifying thought that made his heart race and his fingers twitch. “Your son looks a lot like you.”

Davis, Truman, and Connor all looked down at the boy. Again, Connor looked at ease, but Neville’s throat had gone dry. “Why thank you,” Davis said with a nod. “I like to think so.”

_No_ , Tom thought as he reached out for a red crayon on the marble table. As his fingers wrapped around it, a new voice spoke from behind him. “Come on, Dad.” Neville looked up, his eyes wide, to see Jason standing in the corner. He had his arms crossed over his chest and he was shaking his head. “You don’t want to do this.”

A quick glance around the room showed him that no one else could see Jason; Tom’s son continued to be an illusion only he could see, which meant…

With a shaky breath, Tom leaned forward and presented the red crayon to the little boy. The boy’s eyes were blue—dark blue, but almost an empty blue—and he smiled as he reached out to take the crayon. The child’s stubby fingers wrapped around the base of the crayon, and Tom let go.

The red crayon fell straight through the child’s hand, his leg, his foot, and onto the carpet below. Connor let out a yelp and backed up until his legs hit Davis’s desk, but Tom merely sat up straight, his eyes locked on the president. “So,” he said at last, “it appears your son isn’t real.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 5 of "In the End," in which our core group splits in two with... interesting results, will be posted on Wednesday.


	5. In the End: Act 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! ...Wait, it's not Wednesday? Are you sure? Er... Happy Thursday?
> 
> My family may have had a Christmas party last night, and it may have killed me. Between drunken relatives passing out on my couch to the thousands of dishes I needed to do, this sort of fell by the wayside. So sorry! But happy holidays!

Charlie was sitting around the campfire near the back end of the Texas Rangers’ camp with Gene, Claire Donegan, Sebastian Monroe, and Frank Blanchard when Priscilla and Aaron came around to say goodbye. They were leaving during the night in an effort to pass through some of the disputed area relatively undetected; just in case, Blanchard promised to send a patrol along the main road out of Texas to help them out of any potential scrapes.

“It’s the least I can do,” Blanchard chuckled. “I mean it, it really is the _least_ I can do.”

Aaron’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks,” he deadpanned. Hiking his backpack further up his shoulders, he turned to Gene. “See you around,” he said, sticking his hand out. “Thanks for listening.”

Gene shook his hand with a smile. “Anytime.”

Priscilla gave Gene a hug, squeezing his middle in a friendly, familial way. Meanwhile, Aaron turned to Monroe. He wasn’t quite sure what to say to the ex-general; on the one hand, Sebastian Monroe was a murdering ass. On the other hand, that murdering ass had saved Aaron’s life more than once. It was hard to hate the guy that kept you alive. After a brief hesitation, Aaron finally decided on, “Well… bye.”

Monroe snorted. “Later, Deepdish.”

Aaron scoffed but ignored him and turned to Charlie. She sat quietly on an overturned log with hunched shoulders. Aaron stopped in front of her with his hands on his hips. “Are you going to keep it safe for me?”

Charlie didn’t move, but her eyes flicked up to find Aaron’s face. She didn’t say anything; she just stared with hooded eyes. Her lips were pressed together into a thin line, and Aaron could see worry lines forming at the corners of her eyes. He knew what letting someone else leave her life meant to Charlie; she’d lost too many people already. Finally, keeping hunched forward, Charlie placed her hand over the center of her chest and gave a small nod. Aaron didn’t have to ask to know what that meant: she was already wearing the pendant.

“All right,” Aaron said. He reached out for Priscilla’s hand. She slipped her fingers into his with a smile that Aaron couldn’t help but match. “I guess we’re off.”

“Not yet.”

As one, the group by the fire turned to see Miles and Rachel approaching. Charlie drew in a quick breath at the sight of them—something Monroe noticed immediately, if the way his eyes darted to her face were any indication—because both Charlie’s mother and her uncle were carrying packed backpacks.

As Miles stepped into the circle of logs surrounding the fire, he said, “We’re going with you.”

“No.” It was one word, the only word Charlie could manage, but the rest of the group all turned to her as though she’d just begun a soliloquy.

“Kid’s right,” Blanchard said, standing up. “I need you here.”

“Bass can handle it.”

This time, it was Claire Donegan who spoke up. “But who will handle him?” She glanced towards Monroe to find him watching the display with raised brows. “I don’t trust him.”

“Nor should you,” Miles said with a one-shouldered shrug.

Monroe sat up straight. “Hey! I’m right here, guys.”

“I’m not a Texas Ranger,” Miles continued on. “I can leave whenever I want. This isn’t open for debate.” His eyes found Charlie and he added, “You were right. Aaron and Priscilla need protection. They’ve got to stop the Nanotech and we’re going to help.”

“We have to,” Rachel added. Her voice was soft as she addressed Gene. He wore a skeptical look, but even as Rachel worked to convince him, Gene already appeared resigned to his daughter leaving. “It’s where we’re needed.”

“Um, I’m pretty sure I need you here,” Blanchard said with the raise of an arm. He paused and reconsidered. “Well, not _you_ ,” he said, pointing to Rachel. “You can go. But Miles—“

“Where she goes, I go,” Miles said. “End of discussion.”

Monroe chuckled at that and kicked his feet out in front of him. “I take it you two lovebirds made up, huh?”

Miles’s voice became firm as he pointed to Monroe. “You. Over here. Come on.”

Monroe blinked. “What—“

“Let’s go. Now.”

As Miles led Monroe off to the side, Rachel gave Gene a hug. “Thank you for understanding,” she whispered as she pulled back. She had a soft smile as she added, “it’s something I have to do.”

Gene nodded and kissed her forehead. “Come back, okay?”

 

 

Just beyond the reach of the campfire’s glow, Miles was staring Bass down, his arms tensed by his side. “You have to step up now, Bass, I mean it. I’m not going to be here to watch out for you, not anymore. So don’t do anything stupid.”

Bass rolled his eyes. “Come on, Miles— Ow!” He exclaimed as Miles whacked him upside the head. “Really?”

“Now you listen up,” he said, pointing at Bass. “You watch out for Charlie, okay? You keep her safe, you keep her from doing something crazy. Take her out on missions if you want, but only ones where you defend, not attack. I don’t want her getting caught up in anything while we’re gone.”

Bass frowned. “You sure she’ll stay here?”

Miles sighed and dropped his hand. “Very.”

 

 

With a confidence that she shouldn’t possess, Rachel reached for Charlie’s hand, but the girl pulled away. “Come with us, Charlie,” Rachel said with a smile. She dropped her arm back by her side, but Rachel’s eyes continued to be soft, kind. “I want you with us.”

Charlie felt her jaw grow tense, but she refused to look away from her mother’s naive, pleading eyes. “No.”

“Charlie—“

“I can’t. I’m needed here.”

“I don’t want her going either,” Blanchard added, though from the way neither Charlie nor Rachel looked at him, his input was clearly unwelcome. “She does good work against the Patriots.”

“Quiet, Frank,” Rachel snapped. Her voice grew soft as she tried again. “Please, Charlie? You can do good work fighting the Nanites too—“

“How? I know nothing about the Nano, Nanites… Whatever the hell they’re called,” she said with a shake of her head. “That sort of thing makes no sense to me. I’d rather fight the Patriots. An enemy I can see.”

“It’s what she’s good for,” Blanchard added.

“Shut up, Frank,” Gene said as he laid a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. In the background, Blanchard grumbled something about getting some rest. He turned on his heel and headed off towards his tent; Claire soon followed suit. “Rachel.” Gene waited until she turned her head to look at him before he added, “I’ll watch over her. I promise.”

 

 

“Listen, Miles.” Bass hesitated, his eyes drifting down to stare at his hands. “I don’t know how to say this—“

“We’re cool.”

Bass looked up again, as though he were uncertain he’d heard right. “Yeah?” Miles nodded once, and Bass chuckled in response, his shoulders relaxing. “Hell, I’m sure Bigfoot and the porcelain doll need more protection on their grand quest. I could come along—“

“No.”

The word was quick, forceful, and Bass physically froze. “No? Miles—“

“We’re cool, Bass,” Miles interrupted, “but I need a break.”

Bass’s entire face went slack, as though the surprise he felt were dragging his muscles to the ground. “A break? A break from what, exactly?”

Miles didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to; they both knew that Miles wanted space away from Bass. His chest started to hurt as though he’d been hit, and Bass had to look away. “Look, just take care of Charlie, all right? Promise me.”

Bass snorted. “Yeah, right. Like you trust my word—“

“Your word is good, Bass,” Miles said. The two men locked eyes, and Miles’s voice was a little gentler as he added, “always has been.”

There was a moment of silence as Bass observed the other man—the wariness in his eyes, his authoritative stance—before Bass finally gave a low growl in the back of his throat. “Fine. I give you my word. I’ll protect her.”

 

 

“I don’t want you here, off on your own,” Rachel argued as she leaned in towards her daughter. Rachel caught sight of Miles and Monroe walking back towards the fire, and her voice rose in pitch. “I don’t want you here with _him_ ,” she said.

Charlie didn’t have to look behind her to know that Miles and Monroe had returned to within earshot. Just the sound of Monroe breathing out rather heavily told Charlie exactly where he stood. “Let it go, Mom.”

“Come with us,” Rachel pleaded. “At least I’ll know you’re safe.”

“No,” Charlie said with a forceful shake of her head. She felt rage building within her, rage that her mother was still prodding to get her way. “When are you going to get it? I can’t be around you right now.” Rachel physically stepped back as though she’d been hit, but Charlie pressed on anyway. “There are too many secrets, Mom. I can’t trust you.” Though Charlie knew intuitively that Monroe was standing three feet behind her and to her left, she still turned her head in his direction and briefly met his gaze. Maybe she was trying to make a point; maybe she wanted to see if he would back her up. Either way, his intense stare caught hers, and it was as the pair locked eyes that Charlie finished by saying, “At least with Monroe, what you see is what you get.”

A sob built up in the back of her throat, but Rachel didn’t want to break down in front of her daughter, and certainly not in front of Monroe. With one quick nod and a trembling smile that didn’t meet her eyes, Rachel turned on her heel and began to walk away from camp. With a small wave and a “See you, Charlie,” Priscilla chased after her.

Charlie felt guilt at how she’d left things with her mother, but she also felt as though she’d had no choice; Rachel was like an attack dog locked onto its prey. The only way to stop Rachel from pursuing what she wanted was to shoot her. Metaphorically, of course. Still, Charlie watched the pair of women enter the darkness that swallowed them both completely. 

Once they were both gone from view, Miles wrapped one arm around Charlie’s shoulder. She blinked, as though coming out of a dream, and looked up at him. “Stay safe, kid,” Miles said.

For the first time all night, Charlie chuckled. Maybe it was the way Miles insisted on still calling her kid, or the way he was so nonchalant about partings, but something about her uncle made this much easier to bare. “You too.” 

Monroe and Gene both stepped into line with Charlie, and the three of them watched together as Miles and Aaron walked off into the night.

 

 

In the president’s brightly lit makeshift office in Bradbury, Jack Davis gave a wary smile and shook his head. In front of him, Tom Neville and Connor Bennet stood with looks of fear, surprise, and even a little confusion as they stared at the projection of the little boy coloring on the carpet. The little boy stared back at the two stunned men, his eyes empty. “It’s a flaw in our programing,” Jack Davis said. “Visual and auditory manipulation, we’ve achieved. We’ve yet to figure out how to become fully corporeal.”

“Well,” the little boy said as he staggered to his feet, “sort of, anyway.”

Neville’s voice was thick as he asked, “How?”

A gasp from Connor, however, drew his attention. “You’re the Nana things, aren’t you? The techno-crap Rachel Matheson kept going on about.”

Ed Truman raised a finger. “Nanotech, actually. Or Nanites. They aren’t picky.”

Neville didn’t have a lot of information about the Nanites; he knew they could control power, and he knew that they had some ability to heal wounds. However, the last Neville had heard about them, it had been when the Monroe Militia and the Matheson family army had all converged at the Tower. It had been well over a year since anyone nearby had mentioned the Nanotech. In fact, Neville had completely forgotten about their existence. Suddenly, it all made sense. “You’ve taken over this town.”

“Sure have,” Davis said with a smile. 

An uneasy feeling grew in Neville’s gut, and he suddenly became all too conscious of the kitchen knife he’d slide into his boot early this morning. The Patriots may have confiscated all of their weapons, but Neville wasn’t foolish enough to attend a meeting with his enemy unarmed. Given that his enemy was apparently the Nanotech, however, maybe his knife would prove to be an inadequate weapon of choice… He swallowed and addressed the president. “Why?”

The president shrugged. “Why not? It’s remote and outside the influence of any major power players on this continent. We can build our forces quietly and without interruption.”

“While simultaneously giving the people what they want,” the child added.

“Power,” Connor supplied.

“Exactly.”

“But you’re… you’re not real,” Connor said as he swallowed and pointed to the child. “You’re… I don’t know. A ghost—“

“Projection,” the kid said as he crossed his arms over his chest. His face was calm and knowing, well out of place for the face of a small child. “One of the first projections, in fact. After the power was turned back on a little over a year ago, we have been able to project forward without a lot of strain. Prior to that…”

Neville understood what the child wasn’t saying. “You’ve been around for a long time, haven’t you?”

The child grinned. “Since two years after the Blackout, to the day.” The child glanced at Davis. “The president’s wife and son died en route to Cuba. We could tell the president was in pain, and given his position of authority… Well, of course he was worth helping.”

Neville swallowed as the air around him felt thicker. The Nanotech had been pulling the Patriots’ strings all along. They had their hands in the war between Georgia and the Monroe Republic, the initial battles between California and Texas. A quick glance at the projection of Jason out of the corner of his eye caused Neville to catch his breath. “The reeducation camps,” he said at last. He tried to keep his voice even, but anger bubbled beneath the surface. “Did you have a hand in those too?”

This time, it was Davis who responded with an eerily calm smile. “Of course the Nanotech did, Tom. You didn’t think mere humans could pull off such thorough brainwashing on their own, did you?”

With a guttural cry that sprang from deep within, Tom launched himself over the president’s desk and wrapped his hands around Jack Davis’s throat. Connor stepped back with wide eyes as Neville squeezed, digging his thumb deep into Jack’s windpipe, but Edward Truman jumped up and pulled Tom off. “Sit down,” Truman said with a frown. The president adjusted his collar and brushed at the front of his clothing as though nothing had happened. He didn’t gasp for air or even rub at the skin. “Don’t be foolish, Tom.”

“You’re okay with this?” Neville snapped, gesturing towards the president. “With him and the Patriots taking orders from a… a thing—“

“Calm down, Dad,” he heard Jason say. Turning his head, Neville saw Jason reach out for him. “It’s not a big deal.” Jason looked as though he were going to place his hand on Tom’s shoulder, but at the last moment he stopped, and Tom immediately understood why.

In one quick motion, he pulled the knife that he’d swiped from the kitchen from out of his belt and brandished it against the president’s throat. Neville pressed down hard against the president’s flesh, his voice coming out from between his clenched teeth. “Make. Him. Go. _Away_.”

But to his surprise, the president simply laughed, seemingly oblivious to the blood that dripped from his neck. “You don’t like seeing your dead son?” Connor started and glanced around the room, but it was hopeless; Jason was only visible in Tom’s mind. “Pity. Most people enjoy having their loved ones back again, you know.”

Tom pressed the blade further into Jack’s skin and watched with a level of satisfaction as the blood dripped down onto his thumb. “Make him go away, now, or I’ll—“

“You’ll what? Kill me?” Jack chuckled. “Can’t you see I’m already dead?”

Connor and Neville both froze, and though Neville hated to show his emotions on his face, he couldn’t help the way his eyes went wide. It wasn’t possible. Davis couldn’t be… But then Connor glanced down at the child again for confirmation.Neville, on the other hand, didn’t need to look for confirmation. The smug look of satisfaction visible in Davis’s eyes was proof enough.

“You didn’t think we came to Bradbury without a longterm plan, did you Tom?”

Neville felt his grip on the kitchen knife loosen, and he allowed Truman to pull it from his grasp. “How?”

Jack Davis waved the thought away. “Oh, the Mathesons really did have Jack face a firing squad. It killed me, Tom. Or, at least, it killed Jack, here.” A wide smile and bright eyes converged onto Jack’s face as he added, “and then the Nanites came and reanimated this body. And now it’s mine.”

“But… that can’t—“

“Freshly dead,” the little boy said with a shrug. “That’s the secret. You can’t reanimate something that’s been rotting away for a few weeks, or days even.”

“And they need to be near a power source,” Jack added. “Which is why Bradbury is the perfect place, it really is.”

“Corporeal,” the little boy said again. He went to stand between the animated corpse of Jack Davis and the vision of Jason. They presented a united front—perhaps the freakiest, most sci-fi front in the world, but a united one nonetheless. “Remember? We just want to be corporeal.”

“By killing people?” Connor asked, his mouth falling open in horror.

Truman shrugged and stuck his hands in his pockets. “Only those who won’t be loyal to the Nanites.”

“Disgusting,” Tom growled.

“Logical,” Truman countered, and it was perhaps Truman who Neville hated most of all. The man had willingly sided against humanity. “Humans and Nanites can live in peace. But only if they work together and fight for the same goals. Any rebels to a peaceful coexistence are… expendable.”

“And therefore perfect to assist in making us corporeal,” Davis finished.

“It’s a nightmare,” Connor muttered. “We’re in hell.”

“Not yet,” the little boy whispered. He looked up at the pair from hooded eyes as he added, “But soon.”

With some unspoken cue, the doors to the office flew open and four armed men entered with their guns pointed at Connor and Neville. The pair backed up until they stood side by side, surrounded. Neville began to wish he hadn’t wasted his knife trying to attack the president. The _dead_ president. “We can’t let you go,” the little boy said with a tilt of his head. “We don’t want any trouble from outside sources. And we can’t trust you to be loyal to the Nanites. Even if you gave your word, we wouldn’t believe it.”

Tom’s eyes were hard as he said, “Kiss my ass.”

The little boy quirked his lips and continued, “So we’ll have to simply execute you for crimes against the town and reanimate your body. Tell your neighbors we had you scrubbing floors for a few weeks as a punishment for breaking the rules.”

“We’ve done it many times before,” Jack added with a shrug.

The little boy addressed the guards. “Take them to the cells. Search them before you lock them away. We don’t want them escaping.” As two guards each grabbed ahold of Tom and Connor respectively, the little boy smiled and waved goodbye.

 

 

Miles knew the moment his party had passed into disputed territory because the protection Frank Blanchard had sent along with them saluted their farewells and turned back towards Austin. From the top of a small ridge, Miles could look down and just barely make out the occasional campfire from what he assumed was the Austin base, but really, he couldn’t be too sure. In all reality, it didn’t matter; he knew the odds that the four of them would return to Austin safely were slim to none.

With a sigh, he glanced towards Rachel. A pensive look was on her face, and her hands gripped her backpack tightly. He didn’t want to touch her—not yet, it didn’t seem right—but he still quirked his lips ever so slightly as he asked, “You ready to go?”

She was silent—she didn’t even nod in response—but she met his gaze. With one last look at the heart of the new Texan government, Miles turned away and began the long trek to Bradbury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title for this "episode," In the End, comes from a Linkin Park song, and I thought the lyrics fit Bass's life at this part in the story quite well. Good song; I definitely recommend it.
> 
> Chapter 6, in which Miles and the others arrive in Bradbury, will be posted in the near future.


	6. I Miss the Misery: Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! And happy bonus chapter! I told you the next chapter would be up in the near future, didn't I? So happy holidays to all! Enjoy this weeks bonus chapter, and please let me know what you think!

October

Sebastian Monroe had made a promise to Miles, and it was killing him. He’d kept his word to protect Charlie and to only let her partake in defensive military missions, but in the entire six weeks since Miles and company had left Texas, the Patriots had only attacked once. _Once._ He’d had a one day reprieve from the monotony, and even then the battle had lasted barely an hour. He’d had sixty, no _fifty_ glorious minutes of commanding men and using strategy, and then it was back to waiting for the great Miles Matheson to come home. For six straight weeks, Bass had been sitting on his ass doing nothing, actually hoping the Patriots would man up and attack.

Bass supposed he could join the Texas Rangers and fight the Patriots without Charlie, but he couldn’t bring himself to entertain that notion for too long. Charlie would never forgive him for leaving her behind, and it was only through his relationship with the Mathesons that Bass was tolerated by the Rangers at all. Sure, he’d technically received a presidential pardon a few months back from the new leader of the Rangers for his actions as leader of the Monroe Republic. He was in the clear, unable to be legally prosecuted for anyone he may have injured or offended while he’d run the Republic. But even so, he could tell no one trusted him. A part of Bass believed that if he went on a mission without Charlie to watch his back, he’d drop dead from friendly fire.

One other thing stopped Bass from leaving the camp to fight alongside the Patriots: his promise to Miles. Though he knew Charlie was—in theory—very safe in the Texas Rangers’ military camp, he still couldn’t bring himself to leave, even for a day. If anything happened to her while she was gone—even if it was as simple and as stupid as her tripping over a goddamn rock and breaking her arm—Bass wouldn’t forgive himself. _Miles_ wouldn’t forgive him either.

As a result, Bass spent a lot of his free time in town just a mile or so away from camp. He’d become a regular at a small tavern frequented by lonely women and rowdy men. It was the kind of place Miles would have loved, but Bass couldn’t really enjoy it.

Somehow, day-drinking wasn’t as much fun without Miles by his side.

 

 

After over a month of tedious traveling, Miles knew they were approaching Bradbury when he could see a band of light on the horizon around midnight. It was pitch black, but ten or so miles away a light was shining so brightly that it pierced through the sky. Miles pulled back on his horse and brought it to a stop. The group had lucked out and purchased three horses just outside of what formerly used to be Wyoming; it saved them a lot of walking. “So either half the state is on fire or we’re almost there,” Miles said, looking at Aaron.

The man nodded, his eyes trained on the lights. There was a distant, almost haunted look in his eyes as he said, “Yeah.”

Priscilla sat in front of him on the horse she and Aaron shared, and she gently stroked his hand. “Come on,” she whispered before she turned to Miles. “We should camp here.”

She moved the reins to the side and began climbing down. Miles’s lips grew into a thin line, but he eventually relented. “Yeah, okay,” Miles agreed.

“But we’re almost there!” Aaron protested.

“Aaron,” Priscilla said as her feet touched the ground, “it’s the middle of the night. I’m tired. I need rest, so do you. We’re not going to fight the Nanites dead on our feet.”

“But—“

“Sleep now, scheme later,” Priscilla said with a shrug as she slowly picked up the reins again. Miles watched as she led her horse—and Aaron atop it—over towards a fallen tree and began to tie it up. His lips quirked; they were a good couple.

Which reminded him… He sighed and turned his head. “Rachel?”

She too was staring at the lights in the distance, her lips pursed together in a tight pucker. She’d barely spoken to any of them since they’d left Austin. In part, her silence was probably because of Charlie’s anger and harsh words. At the same time, however, Miles wondered if Rachel had fallen inside of herself because of him.

He was trying to look past her previous encounter with Bass and pick up where they’d left off, he really was. Miles loved her, and he knew that he’d never stop feeling that way. But every time he looked at her, he was haunted by their past. He could picture her staring defiantly at him from inside her cell in Philadelphia, her catatonic state after the Tower, her neurotic shaking in the months after she recovered from her stab wound, her screaming at Bass about “that night in Philly.” Rachel Matheson was a mess of memories and emotions and drama, and he didn’t know what to do with her anymore.

He swung his leg over the side of his horse and stepped down into the dirt. “Rachel,” he said, his voice soft. “Come on. Let’s go.”

Her lips were still pursed but she finally looked away from the skyline as he approached her. He held onto her hips as she slid off of the horse and to the ground. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He should have said something in response—anything, maybe even looked her in the eye—but he let go of her hips and turned away. “I’ll take the first watch,” he said as he walked towards Priscilla. “You take the second.”

She raised a brow. “You trust me with a gun?”

Miles glanced back towards Rachel and shook his head. “I trust you not to do anything crazy, like run off to Bradbury on your own while everyone else is sleeping.” He met Priscilla’s eyes again, and he saw understanding flash through them. “Watch out for Aaron and Rachel, will you? They aren’t exactly playing with a full deck right now.”

 

 

Charlie hated being a lowly guard dog, but she didn’t have much choice. Blanchard refused to assign to anything more than watching the perimeter of the camp—she was sure Monroe had been involved in keeping her caged, she just didn’t have the proof—and as nice as Claire Donegan could be, the woman refused to speak up for her and get her reassigned. Being on guard duty was hell, and her skin itched with a restless need to be anywhere but here.

Gene’s solution to Charlie’s feelings was to try to convince Charlie to learn medicine. “This camp could always use more doctors,” he said one evening as they ate dinner. “I’m getting old, anyway. We have to start teaching the next generation about medicine.” He shrugged, his fork clattering against his bowl. “You could be the next generation.”

Charlie shook her head and set her bowl of stew down on the ground beside her. “I don’t have much of an interest in medicine, Grandpa. Or talent, for that matter.”

He simply shrugged and leaned back. “Suit yourself.”

Without a hobby, a mission, or a lesson, however, Charlie’s life grew boring. As tiring as it was, she missed the days when she, Miles, and Monroe would walk hundreds of miles. She missed hunting for food and camping under the stars. She missed fighting in battles and saving people. What was the point of living if she was just going to stand around all day looking across a field for an enemy that would never show?

Well, the Patriots had attacked once, but the battle had lasted for barely an hour; her adrenaline hadn’t even begun to kick in yet when the last Patriot had been reduced to a pile of blood and bones. It hardly counted.

Over five weeks since Miles, her mom, Aaron, and Priscilla had departed from Texas, Charlie found herself mind-numbingly bored. Around the early afternoon, Charlie decided to take a trip into town. She didn’t have any reason to be there—no items she wanted to buy, or people she wanted to speak with—but there was something appealing about leaving the Ranger’s camp and venturing into a real town with stores in real brick-and-mortar buildings. 

The local town, a couple hours ride outside of Austin proper, was thriving. It was essentially an enlarged version of Willoughby; it had happy townspeople who protected and looked out for one another, a police force to protect the town from potential war clans or gang activity, and an economical system based on more than just diamonds. There were courts and official bartering offices to make sure no one took advantage of anyone else during trades, and actual restaurants that sold things like prepared sandwiches or baked goods.

She wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but Charlie loved this little town because it reminded her a bit of the world before. It felt safe, happy, and advanced beyond all possibilities. Walking the streets—watching neighbors greet neighbors—she felt at peace.

But Charlie also knew she could never live here. As amazing as this town and a quiet life could be, Charlie felt an itching in her veins to go out and do more. She was keyed up from sitting on her hands for so long when the Patriots were still out and mobilizing; she wanted a fight, she _needed_ a fight.

As Charlie passed by a local tavern, however, she paused in the doorway, her eyebrows raised. It appeared that Charlie was the only one still yearning for a battle; Monroe had settled in nicely at a bar stool, a drink in one hand and a girl’s waist in the other.

Charlie stepped back outside and out of sight. She’d heard tales, of course, that Monroe had been spending a lot of time at the local bar with women, but she didn’t think she’d find him there in the middle of the day. Miles had once been known as the town drunk, and Charlie assumed even _he_ would find this excessive. 

She ground her jaw—eyes set straight ahead—and turned back towards camp. _If he can waste time,_ she thought, _then so can I._

 

 

Just outside of Bradbury, Miles, Rachel, Aaron, and Priscilla were stalking the outside of the city, looking for a crack in the brick wall that was being built around the perimeter. Near the back of the town, they spotted a gap about three feet wide that they reckoned they could squeeze through when it got dark. It wasn’t ideal; it was near the giant ice cream shop with the big clown face that lit up everything within a one-mile radius, but it would have to do. “Damn, they’re thorough,” Miles muttered as they settled down to wait.

He was the only one speaking, though. Priscilla and Aaron sat in silence together by the horses. Aaron was watching the town, and Priscilla was watching him. There was a small part of Miles that worried about Aaron—he wasn’t catatonic, so to speak, but his focus hadn’t departed from the Nanite problem over the course of the last month—but Miles also knew that Priscilla would take care of Aaron. He was her crazy, her project, the one she needed to watch over and keep safe.

With a sigh, Miles turned to his own crazy.

“Drink something,” he said in a soft voice. Rachel didn’t look up, so he pressed on. “You don’t drink enough water.”

“I’m all right.”

Silence fell between them again, and Miles searched for something to say. His eyes drifted back towards they way they’d come; the ground was packed hard with dirt and grass, and fallen leaves. To their east, he could see a small forest that stretched towards the town—a good place to find cover, though a poor place to advance on horseback—and to their west he could make out the remains of a cracked and crumbled asphalt road. The potholes on that thing made it impossible to ride across; it would have driven any motorists crazy back in the day. “The weather’s starting to turn. Fall’s coming.”

He watched as her brow furrowed, but all she said was, “True.”

_The weather? Idiot, is that the best you’ve got?_ He searched for something else to say, but he came up blank. He shut his eyes and leaned back against a tree. Oh, this was going to be a long wait.

 

 

_Ben Matheson had never brought a girl home to meet his parents before Rachel Porter. It wasn’t that he’d never dated or been intimate with a woman before; on the contrary, Miles knew that Ben could be quite the charmer whenever he wanted. But Ben was a very practical, straightforward man. He believed there was no reason for his family to meet anyone he was dating unless he planned on marrying her._

_So when Rachel Porter stepped into the small, one-story North Carolina home his parents had moved into a year back, Miles knew this girl was something special._

_“Happy birthday, Miles,” Ben said as he pulled his brother in for a hug. The older Matheson brother had a stupid little goatee on his face and his hair was already starting to thin a little. Miles wondered if the former poor choice was in a barely concealed effort to counteract the aging effects of the later. “It’s been way too long.”_

_Miles grinned, “Yeah, you too.” His eyes met Rachel’s, and he gave a small smile. “Is this my gift? Much better than that crappy bookcase you got my last year.” Rachel’s lips quirked into a smirk, but she said nothing._

_Ben frowned. “You needed a bookshelf; you didn’t have one.”_

_“I don’t read.”_

_“Well you should.”_

_“Knock it off, man. Who’s your… friend?”_

_Ben slipped his arm around Rachel’s waist and tilted his head to the side, warning Miles to play nice. “This is my girlfriend, Rachel Porter. Rach, this is my brother Miles.”_

_She reached for his hand. “Nice to meet you. And happy birthday.”_

_“Thanks.” Their hands met, and Miles was surprised by the warmth that flowed between them; he swore he could almost feel her heartbeat echoing through his palm. “Nice… nice to meet you too.”_

_Ben, oblivious as always, pulled away from the pair and moved towards the kitchen. “Is that Bass’s BBQ sauce I smell? Bass, my man! How are you?”_

_Miles knew he should let go of her hand and follow his brother into the kitchen, but there was something about the way the light was reflected off of her blue eyes that entranced him, until she gave a small giggle and said, “Let’s find the others, shall we?”_

 

 

 

The sun was just beginning to sink below the horizon when Priscilla squeezed Aaron’s hand. She expected him to turn around and smile or maybe squeeze her hand back. Instead, he continued to sit and stare in silence. She swallowed and spoke. “What exactly are we going to do once we get into Bradbury?”

Aaron’s focus was on the town below; he could see dim yellow orbs as lights were turned on in windows and on streetlights. It took him a moment to tear his gaze away. “Wh-what?”

“What’s the plan, Aaron? I know you want to stop the Nanites, but how?”

Aaron hesitated. “I’m not really sure.”

She balked and physically leaned away from him. Aaron hadn’t been talkative with the others regarding his plan to defeat the Nanites, but Priscilla had always amused that was because he was busy fine-tuning it. The thought had never crossed her mind that he didn’t have a plan _at all._ “You want to just walk into Bradbury and what, confront the Nano? Yeah, that seems really smart.”

“We can’t stop them until we know why they’re here.” Aaron wouldn’t meet her gaze, though, so at least Priscilla knew that Aaron was aware of how idiotic he sounded.

“We also can’t stop them if they kill us,” Priscilla pointed out. “There has to be a way to figure out their motives without risking our lives.” Aaron was silent, his head slowly twisted to stare down at the town; Priscilla spoke up to regain his attention. “In any event, you must have a few theories on how to kill them. I know you, Aaron.”

At that, his attention shifted back to her. “I might have a couple ideas,” he admitted.

“Like?”

“Like another virus.”

She frowned and clasped her hands together in her lap. Her palms felt itchy, and she wasn’t sure if it was the dry summer air or her inherent uncertainty of Aaron’s answers. “The Nanites were able to stop you the first time you tried to implement a virus.”

“I know.”

She began to twist her hands together, wringing them as she shook her head. “And you’d need access to a computer, a keyboard, a mainframe—“

“Good thing we’ve found the only electric city in the world.”

Abruptly, Priscilla stopped moving and grasped Aaron’s arm. “Not to mention the Nano are smart, Aaron. They know about your initial virus and they would have fixed that security breach.” She watched Aaron closely, waiting for some kind of reaction that would indicate she’d surprised him or brought something new to his attention, but she found nothing but a blank stare. “You’ll have to come up with a new virus from scratch, and that takes time.”

“I’m aware.”

Her eyes narrowed and she willed her heart to slow down. Logic. That’s what would convince Aaron to confide in her. Logic. “Uh-huh. Tell me, Aaron. What do you think the odds are that the Nano will give you access to a working computer and the time to develop a virus after you’ve learned all about whatever it is they’ve planned?”

His shoulder grew tense, then suddenly relaxed. He let out a long breath, and this time, it was Aaron who took her hand. “Not very good. But we’ll figure it out. I promise.” 

Priscilla caught the use of the word “we” and instantly felt a little better, but she pressed on anyway. She quirked an eyebrow. “Right.”

“I mean it.” For a moment, he smiled, and Priscilla suddenly felt a little at peace; he was Aaron, her cheerful, quirky Aaron. As long as they were together, they could do anything. He wouldn’t abandon her; not again. She squeezed his hand, relishing in its warmth, in the man she had married once upon a time. “We’ll do it together. I know we will.”

But then his gaze drifted back towards the town that sat under the setting sun, and they watched together as the giant clown face that overlooked the city became lit in neon glowing hues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Bass gets guidance about Charlie from an unlikely source, will be posted on Wednesday.


	7. I Miss the Misery: Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er... So... Awkward, this... Me missing Wednesday again. Especially because this time, I don't have an excuse... I just kind of got sucked into The 100 (just started; I finished episode 6!). So, I'm a few hours late, but I hope you don't mind! This chapter is hella important; the next one begins some hella epicness.

Tom Neville and Connor Monroe were still alive, and neither one was entirely sure how or why. It had been five weeks since the Nano had taken them prisoner in Bradbury. For five weeks they’d been living in side-by-side single cells that were just barely big enough for them to lie down. For five weeks, they’d had food shoved underneath the doors of their cells by Nanites in human form. The only other living humans they’d seen were other prisoners, none of whom Neville recognized. He saw some men wearing the uniform of California’s army and a couple of wild, bearded men he assumed were from the Wasteland. None of these men stayed long; most of them were brought in unconscious and removed before they had a chance to wake up.

One girl with curly red hair—she was maybe about fifteen, she was so young—was brought in two weeks ago. She’d said her name was Bonnie, that she was from the Plains Nation, and that she’d been the daughter of a war clan leader that lived up north near the old Canadian border. She’d been terrified—but when the Nanites had appeared before her cell, Bonnie had looked the Nano head on and tried to fight her way to freedom. She lost. Neville never saw her again.

After a fair bit of thought, it didn’t take long for Neville to realize why he and Connor were still alive. The Nanites were systematically capturing and executing people of power within the other nations. A few military officials from California, the daughter of a war clan leader in the Plains Nation, a few violent looking men from the Wasteland. They were taking over leaders, just like they had taken the body of President Jack Davis. Neither Neville nor Connor had any power; their bodies simply weren’t as important.

But that didn’t explain why Tom and Neville hadn’t been killed _yet_. If the Nanites didn’t want their bodies, they didn’t need to keep them alive. Furthermore—he glanced at Connor—if the Nano weren’t going to possess them, then what _would_ they do?

“You’re thinking too much again, Dad.”  
Neville stiffened but didn’t say a word. Jason. The projections of his son had been appearing every day for the last five weeks. He refused to engage.

“Come on, I can see it in your eyes. What are you thinking? You aren’t going to try and escape again, are you?” The Jason projection laughed, but it was a cold, dull sound. “That last attempt went pretty badly for you.”

Neville remained silent, though he couldn’t help but agree. A large welt was visible on the back of Connor’s neck from where the young boy had tried to knock out one of the guards. Connor had been thrown into the back of his cell, and for a moment, Neville had assumed he was dead. It surprised Tom how worried for the boy he actually was and how relieved he’d felt when Connor had started to moan.

The projection of Jason knelt down beside Tom and tried to look him in the eye, but Tom’s gaze remained on his shoes. “You can feel it, can’t you? Your time is coming. It’s almost here. You’re going to die soon to make room for your new host.”

Now _that_ caught his attention. Neville spoke, “It’s about time. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten.”

Connor looked over at him from inside his cell (he was only a few inches away, crammed into a corner cell right by Neville’s), but Neville’s attention was on Jason as the boy laughed. “So you do remember how to speak.”

“I’m surprised you want us. We aren’t powerful. That _is_ why you’ve chosen your select… hosts,” Neville pressed. If he was going to die, then dammit he was going to do so fully informed. “What could you possibly want?”

Jason grinned. “The Mathesons might still be a problem. We’ll have to deal with them one way or another. You two could come in handy.”

Tom gave a sharp chuckle. “Ah. So it’s a long-term need. That’s why you could afford to keep us hanging around. You want the others to infiltrate their old positions in their old nations and governments as soon as possible, but us?” He shook his head. “We can bide our time.”

“Exactly.”

From his other cell, Connor spoke up. “Who the hell are you talking to?”

But Neville ignored him. “And I assume, in some bizarre technical manner, you can’t just kill us all and possess multiple people at once because it would overload your servers, or something?”

Jason quirked his lips. “Or something.”

“You won’t tell me what that something is?”

“Can’t give away all of our secrets, Tom. We aren’t that foolish.” The projection of Jason stepped slowly to the other side of the cell, and Tom could swear that he heard footsteps echo off of the ground. _It’s just an illusion_ , he had to remind himself. “You seem to have figured out a lot.”

“Surprised?”

“Of you?” Jason shook his head. “Never. Although…” he hesitated and raised a brow. “I think you still have some questions. You must. There’s no way you’re so settled with everything you’ve seen. Not you.”

Tom relented and nodded once. “One question stands out in particular.”

The projection of Jason smiled. “Well, please Dad. Go on.”

“Neville?” Connor asked as he wrapped his fingers around the bars that separated their cells. “What’s going on?”

Tom tried his best to shut Connor out. The idiot boy had the worst timing. “You’ve brought in people from the Wastelands and the northern Plains Nation and even from California. But no one from Texas or Georgia or the Monroe Republic. Former nations or not, they still have people in power running around and stirring up the populace.” Neville raised an eyebrow once more. “I also see no Patriots. So why is that? Why being so choosey, so specific?”

But Jason simply shook his head. “You already know the answer, Dad. We’ve told you everything you need to know.” Silence stretched between them, and Jason finally spoke again. “Come on, Dad. Don’t disappoint us now.”

At last, Neville spoke. It was something he’d been considering for the last few weeks, something he’d hoped he was wrong about. “You said the dead bodies needed to be close to a power source to be reanimated.”

“We did.”

“So this isn’t the only power source around?”

Jason smiled. “Very good, Dad. Very good. There are two others. One in the south, and one in the east.”

“Where?”

Jason laughed, and for a moment, Tom was transported back to a time when his son was alive and actually his son—Jason Neville, a member of the Monroe Militia, a soldier, a fighter, an all-around good kid. It was unsettling, the way the Nanites could project forth those who were dead. It was unsettling, the pang hearing Jason’s voice stirred in his chest. “Now, Dad,” Jason said with a grin. “You know we can’t give you the specifics. We aren’t that stupid.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“What?” Jason asked with an amused smirk.

“Dad. I’m not your dad. You are _nothing_ to me.”

“Well that’s pretty fucking clear, isn’t it?”

Tom started at the sentence because—to his astonishment—it hadn’t stemmed from the projection of Jason; it was actually Connor who had spoken. “Boy, what are you—“

“You know, it’s amazing, really fucking amazing, how here I am, following after you because you say you want to help me, and I end up in a damn cage with you, and even now you won’t thank me, or talk to me.” Connor shook his head, and Tom was a little alarmed to see a glint of crazy appear in his face as Connor’s eyes stopped focusing on him, on anything, but instead began to stare into nothingness. “God, even with nobody there, I’m picked last! What the hell is wrong with me, that my own father would choose a guy who tried to kill him, and that _you_ would rather talk to a fucking cell door? Huh?”

Tom heard Jason’s soft snickers from behind him, but Tom did his best to ignore the projection as he stood, reached through the bars, and grabbed ahold of the front of Connor’s shirt. “Calm down. Don’t be an idiot.”

The boy stepped back. “An idiot? Me? Are you—“

“You aren’t always picked last, you’re just too damn stubborn to notice what the hell is going on around you.” Neville’s voice dropped into a whisper. “Now calm down and use your head. The cells have been quiet the last few days. Our time is running out. You want to escape? You stop playing the woe-is-me game and you _think_.”

Neville released the boy’s shirt and stepped back. He watched as the glint of crazy faded out of Connor’s eyes. The boy was calmer now—breathing a little heavy, sure, but calmer nonetheless. Neville wondered if that small bit of madness he’d seen in the boy was something he’d inherited from Monroe. He made a mental note to keep an eye on it if they lived past the next few days.

It was only as Neville settled back on the floor of his cell that he realized Jason had gone, and though a part of him was relieved at the momentary reprieve, a larger part of him already missed his son’s face, even if it wasn’t real.

 

 

It was twilight when Bass walked back into the Rangers’ camp. He was far more sober than he’d meant to be, and he’d left the local bar well before he thought he would. There was just something a little weird about drinking in a bar without Miles by his side for hours on end. What was the point of getting plastered and picking up women if he were alone?

Besides, a few Texas Rangers had come into the bar as the sun began to set; Bass took that as a sign to pack it up and leave. The Rangers barely tolerated him when everyone had to work together to kill Patriots, and they hated having him in their camp. He was one drunken bar fight away from getting cornered, and he’d hate to have his presidential pardon revoked because he had to kill some idiots in self-defense.

He sighed and made his way towards his tent. What was the point in all of this? Weren’t the Rangers supposed to be fighting to salvage the rest of the country from under the Patriot’s thumb? Instead, everyone was sitting around waiting for something to happen. Or, worse: making copious amounts of do-nothing plans without him.

“Tired?”

With a start, Bass looked up to find Gene heading towards him. The old man had bloodstains on his tan button-down shirt and he smelled vaguely of antiseptic. Bass shook his head and subtly stepped back; he didn’t want to know whose blood that was. “More like bored out of my fucking mind.” Bass paused, his mouth opening just the slightest. Maybe he was slightly more tipsy than he thought. “Sorry.”

Gene chuckled. “I’ve heard worse. From my own daughter, mind you.”

“Shocker,” Bass muttered.

“Why’re you bored? There’s plenty for you to do, I can promise you that.”

“Yeah,” Bass said with a roll of his eyes. “Cleaning and cooking and guarding the damn camp. Sounds swell.”

Gene raised an eyebrow. “Last I checked, the Rangers could use you on a few of their excursions.”

Bass was already shaking his head. There was something about Gene that made him want to open up. Maybe it was the fact that Miles and Charlie vouched so strongly for the guy, or maybe it was that he was one of a few people in all of Texas who didn’t want to see him dead. Perhaps it was the fact that Gene actually treated Bass’s presidential pardon like a clean slate. Either way, Bass took a deep breath and said, “Can’t. Gotta stay here and watch the kid.”

Gene blinked. “You mean _Charlie_?” Bass gave a curt nod, and Gene sighed. “Ah. So that’s why Frank’s been leaving her out of the fight. Your orders.”

“Miles’s, actually, but I appreciate the blame,” Bass said. His lips curled up into a slight sneer, and he began walking towards his tent again. “I have to keep her safe and out of trouble.”

“Why?” Gene asked, keeping step with him. “It’s not like she hasn’t gotten involved before.”

Bass shrugged. “I didn’t ask. But it’s what Miles wants, so I’m going to do my damnedest to keep her safe. I gave him my word.”

“So?”

Bass stopped walking, his eyes narrowing into a glare. “So you and every other stinking Texan in this whole damn country may think my word means nothing, that I’m a manipulative double-crossing son of a bitch, but I’m not. Miles trusts me, so I’m keeping my word.”

Bass started to walk again, and for a moment he thought he’d left Gene behind. He grinned to himself, a little proud of the dramatic exit, imaging Gene staring after him in shock. And then the man in question spoke. “Look,” Gene said, falling into step with him once more. “I don’t like the idea of Charlie being in danger. She’s my granddaughter; I want her safe. But…” he hesitated. “Look, she’s miserable here. She wants in on the fight. And I think she’s more likely to do something stupid and get herself hurt the longer she stays holed up in this camp.”

Bass conceded. “Probably, yeah.”

“She’s an adult, Monroe. If she wants to fight, and if you want to fight, then you both have the right to do so. _Safely,_ ” Gene said. “No suicide missions.”

Bass sighed. He felt exhausted all of a sudden; he didn’t want to argue it any longer. “I promised Miles—“

“To keep her safe,” Gene said with a nod. “So keep her safe. Out there, in the field,” Gene hesitated, then finished, “where you both belong.” He paused. “But only if she wants to.”

Bass was struck by the notion that Gene was actually a pretty good guy; how the hell had he wound up with Rachel for a daughter? “Maybe,” Bass conceded. He may have appreciated the advice, but he wasn’t going to thank Gene. He didn’t appreciate it _that_ much.

“Go talk to Charlie,” Gene said with a nod and a step backwards. “See what she says.” He turned and the two of them began to walk in opposite directions until Gene’s voice stopped Bass cold. “Oh, and Monroe? If Charlie dies, you die too.”

Bass stood there, body tense, and turned to watch Gene walk away. It was only after a moment that Bass realized he’d let _Gene_ have the melodramatic parting exit and Bass scowled. He struggled to think of something clever to say in response before he sighed and gave up. There wasn’t really much of a point anymore; Gene was already out of earshot.

 

 

As the main door to the prison opened, Tom Neville could tell from the darkness that flooded into the room that the sun had set. It took his eyes a moment to adjust and make out the two figures that descended the steps—being back in an electric world had apparently messed up his night vision—but when his eyes had adjusted, he could make out the smug faces of Jack Davis and the Nano child.

Connor stood in his cell as the two Nano-figures approached, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. The boy had his hands balled into fists, and his veins were sticking out of his neck. In a weird way, Neville was almost proud of him; Connor would go out fighting, just like Jason had.

Davis and the child bypassed Connor’s cell and stopped walking in front of Neville’s. The child tilted his head to the side. Now that Neville knew the child wasn’t real, he realized just how ghostly and ethereal the kid looked. There was a wiseness in his eyes that most adults lacked, but also a haunted look. The kid looked as though he’d seen thousands, maybe even millions of deaths in his time. But that wasn’t possible. He wasn’t real.

Neville stayed seated; he wouldn’t do them the satisfaction of standing. Davis tilted his head to the side in an off-putting way that mimicked the child’s actions. “Tom,” he said by way of greeting. “How’ve you been?”

“Oh, just peachy,” Neville said, flashy them a toothy smile. “And you?”

“Quite well, quite well indeed,” the president said before pausing. “It won’t be long now, you see. Give it half an hour and you’ll be right as rain again.”

“We never understood that idiom,” the child said. “It’s senseless.”

“Many human things are,” Davis concluded.

“Oh, please. Take your comedy duo on the road, why don’t you?” Neville drawled. He stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back against the cell wall. “Which one of us will you be sacrificing tonight?”

The child smiled. “Both, of course.”

Neville snorted. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve figured it out.” He was met with blank faces, so he pressed on. “The prisoners you bring in here. They come one at a time and they are removed one at a time. I don’t know why and I don’t really care, but for some reason you can only possess one body at once.”

Jack glanced down at the child. “I told you. He’s smarter than he looks.”

“Pity,” the child acknowledged. “He would have made a great liaison to the humans.”

Neville was annoyed with the banter between the pair of them, though, so he prompted Davis and the NaNo child with, “Well?”

“Oh, you’ll both die tonight,” Davis said with a wave of his hand. “It’s a full moon.”

There was a lengthy pause, and it took Neville a while to realize that Davis had nothing else to add. “Okay,” Neville said with a glance towards Connor. “And…”

“And we have access to lunar power,” the child said. “The reflection of the moon light is more compatible with our operating system than solar power. On the nights of the full moon, we can take multiple bodies at once.”

“Though still limited,” Neville pointed out, “or else you would have overtaken the entire town by now.”

The pair once again exchanged looks. “Something like that,” Davis conceded.

The Nano child glanced back at the door to the prison, and at that moment, the door opened. “It’s nearly time,” the child said once more. “Any last requests? From either of you?” His eyes drifted over to Connor. The Monroe boy had maintained his rigid, fighting posture throughout the entire conversation.

“Kiss my ass,” Connor grumbled.

As one, the child and Davis turned to Neville. “What about you?” Davis said. “Do you have a more… manageable last request?”

Neville was tempted to make a disparaging remark similar to what Connor had said, but at the last moment, he hesitated. He knew how the Nano thought; they assumed they knew what was best for all of humanity. They thought they were being kind when in actuality they were pouring salt onto open wounds, and because of that Neville knew exactly what would happen when the Nano had him executed.

He swallowed his pride and spoke. “One thing,” he said, his voice calm. “One… request.” He took a deep breath and dropped his guard. “Don’t show me Jason ever again.”

Davis raised a brow. “But he’s your son.”

“It’s a cheap trick, nothing more,” Neville said. “If you want to grant me a last request, than grant me that one.” He hesitated, then finished with, “Please.”

He waited as both stared back at him. He kept waiting for Jason to materialize to his left, to hear his voice, to see his face. In one sick, twisted way, he wanted to. He wanted to see his son one last time, to pretend that Jason was still alive and he hadn’t failed his boy. But on the other hand, Neville knew it was all an illusion, and he couldn’t live with that.

Finally, at the same time, Jack and the child nodded once. “Done.”

Neville was in the middle of breathing a sigh of relief when Jack turned towards the prison door. “Guards,” he called out in a mild voice, “bring them out to the execution point.”

 

 

“All right,” Miles said as he strapped his large rifle around the side of his chest. “Be ready to move. We’ve got to be quick, we’ve got to be quiet. Take out anyone who sees you, understand? Man, woman, or child. We don’t know who’s working with the Nano.”

Aaron started, his voice wavering. “That’s a little harsh.”

“That’s war,” Miles said simply. He tossed a few rounds of ammo to Priscilla, who tucked the magazines into the pocket of her jeans. Miles hesitated before he asked her, “Is the safety on?” He gestured towards the small revolver she carried.

Priscilla scowled. “Yes.”

“You sure?”

She was indignant this time. “Yes!” But when Miles turned his back to unload a few more weapons from their packs, she checked one last time, just in case.

“All right, I’ll take point,” Miles said as he tucked a spare handgun into the waistband of his jeans. “Stay behind me and wait for my signal. For God’s sake don’t move until I’ve told you to, everybody got it?”

“Miles.”

His head snapped towards Rachel; she’d been silent throughout all of the mission prep, and he’d almost forgotten she was there. In truth, Rachel hadn’t been paying attention to a word he said; her eyes were trained on the town people, and her whisper was so soft that he could barely hear her. “Look.”

He knelt down on the ridge beside her and looked down. It appeared as though two figures were being led out of Bradbury through the crack in the wall that they’d been about to exploit. The two figures were being led at gunpoint—of that much Miles was sure—by five other figures, one of which was very small. Swearing, Miles retrieved his binoculars from his pack and peered down at the town once more. They didn’t need some grand execution of fucking civilians in their way, not now—

His breath caught in his throat. “Shit,” he said. His eyes snapped to Rachel’s as he said, “It’s Connor and Neville.”

Rachel met his gaze dead-on, and suddenly there was more life in her voice than there had been in the last four months. “Tom Neville? And Connor Monroe?”

Miles sighed. “Yep. Those idiots.” He passed Rachel the binoculars and glanced down at them again. This wasn’t good, not at all. “Shit,” he said again before tossing up his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. As much as he wanted to ignore Connor and Neville—storm the place, who cares about the pair?—he couldn’t. “All right, change of plans,” he said. “We’ve got to rescue the dicks.”

“What? No,” Aaron protested. “That interferes with the plan! We have to find out information about what the Nano want—“

“You think Neville hasn’t figured that out by now?” Miles asked. “That slimy little weasel probably knows their whole plan. Trust me, you want answers, he’s the man you get them from.”

Miles was right and everyone knew it. What they didn’t know was that Miles had another reason for wanting to rescue the pair: Bass. He had to save Connor for Bass’s sake, even if it meant risking his own neck. It was what Bass had promised he’d do for Charlie; though Miles hadn’t specifically said it, Miles felt like he owed him Connor in return.

And if he could find the motivation to rescue Bass’s son, then maybe he could finally begin to forgive Bass for sleeping with Rachel. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8, in which Bass goes to Charlie and HOLY SHIT, NOT AGAIN!, will be posted soon.
> 
> (Also, in case you were wondering, Chapter 7 marks the last published chapter for the next 3-4 months with no Charlie/Bass interaction. You have been forewarned).


	8. I Miss the Misery: Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! I hope you enjoy this week's bonus chapter. It was a wee bit stressful to get out, but I'm really happy with it.
> 
> This chapter's not the long, but it's big. Enjoy.

Bass sighed and rubbed his eyes as he approached Charlie’s tent. He was loathe to admit it—and he’d kill anyone who mentioned his quiet contemplation— but Bass had spent the last few hours sitting on his cot, thinking over Gene’s words. In one sense, Gene had a point: he and Charlie were both adults, and if they wanted to fight then they would, Miles be damned. But every time Bass started to curse Miles in his head, he was reminded of the promise he’d made. Bass could picture Miles’s face—that hollow look in his eye as he turned his back once more. Bass didn’t want to disappoint Miles again; he couldn’t.

So after a few hours of pondering—going back and forth and being unnecessarily angsty over the whole issue—Bass decided to follow Gene’s advice and simply discuss the matter with Charlie. After all, if she was so pent-up with blood lust that she was ready to sneak out of camp by herself, then Bass wouldn’t really be breaking his promise to Miles, would he? In some weird, twisted way, taking Charlie hunting would be like protecting her, right? …Right? Bass sighed. _Like Miles would ever go for that._

As he approached her tent, however, Bass could hear what sounded like a struggle coming from inside. He heard shallow, huffing breaths, a large _thud_ of bone hitting wood, and then a low, feminine groan that sounded like Charlie. Eyes going wide, Bass pulled a knife from his pocket and threw back the flap of the tent…

…Only to find a bare-waist Charlie straddling some random Texas Ranger on top of her round wooden table. Bass could only silently thank God that they were both still wearing pants.

“No, no,” Bass said, his hands coming up to briefly cover his eyes. “You are kidding me, not again! No!” He looked back to find the army guy trying to push Charlie off of him, but she just stayed where she was. Her arms crossed over her chest, hiding most of her breasts from view, but simultaneously pushing them higher in a swell that had Bass swallowing. He had just managed to get the image of her naked with Connor out of his mind, dammit.

“What are you doing here, Monroe?” Charlie asked with a raised brow. Her voice was infuriatingly calm, her face nonchalant. It made his blood boil.

Instead of saying anything in response, Monroe—still holding his knife—stalked over to the table, grabbed the Ranger guy by the shoulders, and yanked him up. Charlie had to scramble off of the Ranger’s lap to land on her feet, but Bass was past caring. “Go on,” Bass growled. He grabbed the guy’s shirt and threw it at his face. “Get out.”

The Ranger ran without a single glance back. _Coward_ , Bass thought as he stared after him. A real man would have stayed and stood up for— 

All thoughts of “real men” flew from his mind as a hard thump on the back of his head had him cursing and turning around. Charlie was glaring at him, arms at her side—though Bass was relieved to find that she’d managed to put on a bra—and she raised her fist to hit him again. “Whoa,” Bass said as he grabbed her wrist, locking it tight in his grip. “Listen—“

“What the _hell_ gives you the right?”

Bass’s mouth dropped open and he shoved his knife back into his pocket. “Excuse me? Was that idiot your long-lost soulmate or something.”

Charlie glared and yanked her fist out of his hand. “I won’t ever know, will I? You chased him off before learned his name.”

Bass sputtered; out of everything she could have said, that was the last thing he’d expected. “You… you don’t even know his name? Are you kidding me?”

Charlie rolled her eyes. “He told me. It didn’t stick.”

Bass swept his arms out to the side. “What the _fuck_ are you doing, Charlie?”

“Passing time.”

“Passing…” He shook his head, and without meaning to, his eyes dipped down to find the swell of her breasts peeking out from underneath her bra. He swallowed and struggled to meet her eyes. “Surely you could find something more productive to do than screw strangers.”

“More productive. Like day drinking?” Charlie said with a smug smile as she picked up the fallen chair. 

“Don’t you go throwing that in my face—“

“Besides,” Charlie said with a raised brow, “I’ve heard the stories. Don’t act like you aren’t doing the same thing down at the tavern in town. You hypocrite.”

“Hey, I’m not a vulnerable girl screwing around with random guys,” Bass said, stepping closer to her. He leaned in, until they were only a foot apart. “ _I_ can protect myself—“

But he was cut off as she once again landed a punch, this time in the middle of his chest. His chest throbbed, and for a moment, Bass struggled to catch his breath. “At least I can stay sober from sun-up till sundown. That helps offset the ‘vulnerable girl’ crap. Lets me have fun in peace.” She turned her back on him and walked towards her cot. “Vulnerable. You shithead.” She sat down on her cot and kept her eyes locked on his as she reached for the underside of her bed. From in-between the legs of her cot, she pulled out the large machete she’d hidden there. “I’m not some defenseless child, Monroe.”

He rubbed at his chest, all the more aware that she still hadn’t put on her shirt. He felt his breath coming a little quicker, and he told himself it was because he was angry, not because he was looking at a woman’s chest. Oh, who was he kidding; it had been awhile since he’d been laid. Any old pair of tits was enough to get his heart pounding, at this point. “You are a child if you think fucking strangers is fun.”

Charlie pursed her lips into a smug smile. “It’s the best work-out I’ve had since Miles and the others left.”

Bass felt his heart drop in his chest—he instantly felt guilty for even noticing Charlie’s topless body—and he let out a low groan. “Oh, don’t bring up Miles _now_. And put a shirt on!” Charlie rolled her eyes but pulled her tank top off of the floor and complied. He looked away, his eyes trained on the ceiling of her tent, as she made herself decent. Gene was right; Charlie could get in a hell of a lot of trouble all by herself here in the Ranger camp. “You can’t just… screw around like this—“

“Because I’m a woman?”

Bass dropped his eyes to meet hers. “Because your Miles’s niece,” he said, his voice firm. “He’d kill me if I let you.”

She sank back onto her cot, a smarmy, fuck-you smile slipping across her face. “Who said you can _let_ me do anything, Monroe?”

The air felt thick between them, and Monroe felt his gaze grow heavier and heavier as they continued to stare each other down. Words were caught in his throat, his hands frozen by his side. Her eyes were like magnets, and he felt a strong pull between his gaze and hers, making it impossible to look away. He caught hatred in her gaze, anger, maybe a little sexual frustration, stubbornness and determination, but he also saw something else, something he didn’t recognize. With a quick swallow, he forced himself to look away. “Find a new hobby.”

She snorted and leaned back on her cot. “Make me.”

Just like that, a wave of anger rose within him, and he turned on his heel and stomped out of the tent. _Make me_ , she said. Monroe’s eyes were set with a steely determination. Well that was exactly what he was going to do.

 

 

As the moon rose high in the sky, Neville and Connor were lined up against the brick wall that surrounded the town of Bradbury. President Davis and the Nano-child looked on as Truman and two other human guards raised their rifles. It was a firing squad. The Nano-controlled Davis was having them face a firing squad. There was probably some ironic justice wedged in their somewhere, but Neville’s mind was too preoccupied to find it.

Neville took a step closer to Connor and evaluated his options. They were tied together so they couldn’t run, and their hands were tied so they couldn’t fight. The only feasible chance he had at survival was to talk his way out of danger—something he, admittedly, excelled at—but given that his wardens were Nanites, he wasn’t very hopeful.

Briefly, Tom Neville closed his eyes. He’d always imagined he’d be gunned down, just never like this. He liked to think he’d die in battle—doing something incredibly brave, like saving civilians or protecting his family—but in all reality, Neville had assumed for quite some time that he would probably be shot in the head by a Matheson or a Monroe for making a smart ass comment. But being executed by a Nano firing squad? It felt wrong.

“Well, this sucks,” Connor muttered.

Neville sighed; that was an understatement. “Sorry, boy,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “This is my fault.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Connor deadpanned.

Neville’s head whipped around to glare at the young Monroe. “Hey, don’t you start running your mouth now, boy—“

He was cut off as shots rang out around the perimeter of the city. Instinct told him to drop to the ground, and he pulled Connor along with him. The boy fell on him with a large _thud_ and his chin dug into the dirt, but in that moment, Neville realized that the gunfire wasn’t directed at them, nor was it coming from Truman and the others; it came from the hills that surrounded Bradbury.

The men holding them captive had their backs turned and were scanning the hills; Neville knew to exploit an opening when he saw one. “Quick,” he whispered to Connor. “Untie us.” The boy began working on the ropes that bound them together. Meanwhile, Neville’s eyes perused the hips of the Nano-controlled men, looking for a spare weapon he could steal and use to defend them. In the back pocket of one of the guards, Neville saw what looked like a switchblade; he just had to get to it.

More shots rang out, and Neville noticed Jack dart away from the group. Tom didn’t really care where Jack was going, or even who was taking the time to save him and Connor, just so long as he and the boy made it out of the battle alive.

He felt the rope holding him to Connor give way, and the boy grabbed Tom’s hands and pulled them to him. “Here,” Connor muttered as he started to untie the ropes. More shots were fired, and both Connor and Tom ducked, staying low to the ground. It was as Tom’s hands pulled free that he noticed a dark form streak out from behind the hills. “Hey!” Connor said, drawing his attention back to him. He thrust his arms out. “My turn.” But Neville knew this battle would be coming to a head soon; he couldn’t waste time untying Connor.

Neville sprang up, running away from Connor’s stunned cry of, “Hey!” and dove for the guard, tackling him to the ground. The guard’s gun slid away and out of reach. Neville punched the guy in the face and wrestled with him for the knife in his back pocket. He succeeded in pulling it out, then he flipped it open and slit the guard’s throat.

The struggle had alerted the second human guard to what was going on, however, and Tom watched in horror as the guard pointed his gun at Neville’s head. Neville raised his arms. “Easy.” The guard continued to watch him with a calculating expression, however, his finger poised on the trigger.

The back of the guard’s head burst, blood splattering down the back of his shirt as he fell to the ground. Tom swallowed and looked up to find the cold eyes of Rachel Matheson staring back at him. Her golden hair seemed to sparkle from the light of the full moon, creating a halo around her hard blue eyes. Somehow, even though Neville had last seen Rachel in Texas, he wasn’t surprised to find her as his savior. “Thanks,” he said, his mouth dry.

She didn’t reply, but her lips were pursed into a single line as she turned her head and looked for Miles. Neville looked up to see Miles Matheson holding a machete to Truman’s throat. Miles surveyed the scene, noting the quiet. “Is that everyone?” Miles asked. He jerked Truman’s neck, the blade coming dangerously close to his skin. “Huh?”

Neville swallowed and looked back towards Connor. Tom was surprised to see that the boy was standing with Aaron Pittman, who was in the process of sawing through the ropes around Connor’s wrist. Neville walked over to them. “I was going to do that,” Neville said, his eyes on Connor.

The young Monroe was furious, his eyes enlarged. “Next time, let me in on your plan!”

_Idiot boy_. As if there was any time. But as Neville opened his mouth to reply, he heard a shrill shriek echo from the hillside. He, Miles, and Rachel all turned as one. Rachel raised her gun, pointing it at the new enemy, but from the quick sob that escaped from Aaron, Tom knew that Rachel wouldn’t fire a shot.

Davis hadn’t run away like Neville had initially assumed; no, he’d grabbed Priscilla Pittman and held a knife to her throat. The small woman was shaking, her eyes squeezed shut in terror.

Miles’s grip on Truman tightened. “Drop her. Drop her now, or he dies.”

Davis smiled. “I could say the same to you.”

“Let her go!” The cry was torn from Aaron’s lips, and it held pain and fear and longing all at once. His eyes were wide and Neville could hear the breath shake as it left his lips. “Please, I’ll do anything—“

“Too late, Aaron,” Davis said with a chuckle.

Aaron stepped forward, bringing himself parallel with Miles. Rachel and Connor followed suit, until they all stood in a single line, a united front. “How do you know my name?”

Miles squinted. “Davis? Is that you?” He straightened up slightly as his lips turned down into a frown. “Didn’t we kill you?”

“He’s Nanotech,” Neville answered, falling into line with the Matheson brood. “They possessed the corpse. Reanimated it. It’s what they were going to do to us.”

“But…” Rachel glanced at him, no signs of malice or anger on her face. Instead, Neville could detect surprise and a slight hint of fear. Oh, that did not bode well. “That’s not possible.”

“You’d be surprised,” Connor muttered. The boy walked over to one of the dead guards and grabbed his gun.

“Don’t hurt her,” Aaron said, taking another step forward. His voice broke, “ _Please_.”

But Davis simply grinned. “You should have helped us when you had the chance.” Then he dragged his knife across Priscilla’s throat until the young woman gasped, sputtered, and slumped to the ground.

“No!”

Immediately, Rachel fired at the president. Jack fell to the ground, but he sat up without any trouble. “You can’t kill a dead man, Rachel,” Jack said as the air around Jack and Priscilla began to take on a slightly yellow glow. Rachel’s eyes grew wide as she watched Jack stand, his bullet wounds completely healed.

Priscilla’s body, meanwhile, went hypertensive. Her back arched, pushing her chest up towards the sky as she gasped. The wound around her throat began to close up and her limbs shook. “No,” Aaron muttered once more.

“To hell with this,” Miles muttered. He dragged his machete across Truman’s throat and threw him to the ground. “Rachel—“

But he jumped as Truman wrapped his hand around Miles’s leg. “You can’t kill me,” Truman said. He grinned, blood dripping through his teeth. The air around him began to turn yellow, and it was with horror that Tom realized Truman had been controlled by the Nanites all along. “I’m already dead.”

_Bang_! Truman fell back to the ground and released Miles’s ankle. Miles looked to Rachel in shock; the terrifying blonde hadn’t hesitated in shooting Truman in the head. In a world of chaos—Aaron sobbing, Priscilla’s corpse convulsing, Nano-zombies rising—Rachel Matheson hadn’t paused for a single moment. She looked Miles straight in the eye. “We have to move.”

“Oh, Aaron.” 

The voice was sweet and soft. The group looked back over towards Priscilla and Jack with wide, horrified eyes. Aaron let out a sob as he watch Priscilla climb to her feet. She looked healed, normal even, but she wore a dreamy, calm expression that was too out of place for all of the insanity that was occurring. “Give in. You should let us help you.” Priscilla reached out her hand and took a step forward.

That was when Rachel once again let loose, emptying her clip into Priscilla’s stomach. This time, Connor and Miles joined her, shooting at both Jack and Priscilla until they both crumpled to the ground. “Let’s move,” Miles yelled, and suddenly, they were all running up the hill.

“Come on, Aaron.” Tom could hear Rachel pleading with the man from over his shoulder. “She’s dead. Aaron, she’s dead.” She slapped him across the face. “We have to go.”

It wasn’t perfect persuasion, but it was enough. With that, Aaron was following after them all as they ran up the embankment. At the top, sheltered underneath a few trees, stood three horses. “Come on,” Miles said as he began to untie them. “Quickly.” Tom jumped to it and began to help untie one of the horses. “Connor, help Rachel up. Neville, gather the packs. We have to go.”

The group scrambled to gather their belongings and flee before Truman, Priscilla, and Jack were mobile enough to catch up to them, but somehow, they made it. Miles jumped onto the back of Rachel’s horse and Neville climbed up behind Connor. It was a tight fit, but hell, you can’t exactly be choosey when fleeing for your life. “Go!” Miles shouted. Aaron, Connor, and Miles all urged the horses forward. As they hurried away from Bradbury, Tom gave the town one last look. He could see at the top of the hill they’d left behind Jason standing with his arms crossed, watching. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 9, in which Miles and the others make a plan, will be posted next Wednesday.


	9. I Miss the Misery: Act 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next hour and a half, it's still Wednesday, thus making me not late and absolutely on time with the posting of this chapter! 
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has commented. You all make me smile. Enjoy!

Miles, Rachel, Aaron, Connor, and Tom didn’t stop riding away from the hell that was Bradbury until they had entered what had once been considered the state of Wyoming. The horses were exhausted—though in all honesty, everyone was—but the group was way too keyed up to sleep. Miles had his gun glued to his hands, Rachel had a pistol out and ready to be fired, and Neville was pacing furiously. Even Connor, to some extent, was nervously glancing over his shoulder towards Idaho, as though he expected the Nanite-controlled zombies to climb over the hill and descend upon them all. Only Aaron sat slumped over on the ground, his head buried in his hands. He sat stiff and unmoving.

It wasn’t long before Miles joined Neville in his furious pacing, but eventually, the silence grew to be too much. “What the hell,” Miles said at last.

“I know,” Rachel repeated.

“I mean it, what the hell!”

“I know, I know.” Rachel shook her head. “This has gone beyond what anyone could have imagined. I never… When we created the Nanites, we never… They’re reanimating the dead—“

“Possessing is a better word for it,” Neville interjected. “The dead are truly gone. Truman, Jack, Priscilla,” he said with a glance towards Aaron. “They aren’t ever coming back. The souls aren’t there. The thing inside their bodies… it’s purely Nanotech.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel muttered.

“Are you sure?” Miles asked with an arch of an eyebrow. “You sure they’re all dead? Permanently dead?”

A dry laugh escaped from Connor’s throat, and everyone except for Aaron turned to look at him. “Very sure,” he said, his voice low. “The crazy fuckers were about to execute us.”

“The old soul has to die before the Nanites can take their place inside the host body,” Neville confirmed. His voice sounded tired and wary, as though this was all _way_ more than he’d bargained for.

“Okay, okay, so what do we do?” Miles asked, in problem-solver mode once more. “We have to do something.”

“We’re not safe here,” Rachel added. “We have to hide. They could find us, they _will_ find us.”

“So we need to find a safe haven,” Miles extrapolated. His hands grasped onto his belt as he looked off into the distance, thinking. “Somewhere the Nano can’t reach, somewhere they won’t be able to eavesdrop and get into our heads—“

“The Tower.” His voice was soft, but it could not be denied that Aaron had been the one to speak those fateful words, words Miles and Rachel had both hoped they’d never hear again. As one, everyone looked down at Aaron. In truth, most of them were surprised that he’d even been paying attention. “We have to go to the Tower.”

Miles drew in a quick breath—this was a bad idea, such a bad idea—but Rachel’s eyes locked with his, and they looked clearer than they had in weeks. “The Nano can’t get into the Tower. That’s what the Tower’s defense system is based on. We’ll be safe there.”

“And maybe we’ll find more information,” Neville added in a low voice. “Something to help us destroy the bastards once and for all.”

Miles raised a brow, “So you’re on team Matheson now, is that it?”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Neville said with a dangerous smile. “First thing we need to do is find a wagon. That way we can sleep on the move; it’ll lower our stopping time.”

“There’s a town to the east,” Rachel said. “I saw it as we rode up. Miles and I can go at first light—“

“Hold up,” Miles said, grabbing onto Rachel’s wrist. His eyes were slightly panicked. “Whoa. The Tower? Are we sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be.”

Her voice was cold and strong, leaving no room for argument, but even still, Miles sighed before meeting Rachel’s eyes again. “The Tower?” But as he looked at her, he was surprised by what he found. Gone was the haunted, meek woman he’d been companions with on the ride to Bradbury; back was the terrifying woman he’d come to know and love. Rachel, scariest-woman-alive Rachel was back and ready to battle. There lay no fear in her eyes, only strength. “Are… are you sure? Last time you were there—“

“It’s not a perfect option,” Rachel interrupted. “But it’s the best chance we have of stopping the Nanotech.” She hesitated, looking uncertain, before determination took over her face once more, and she raised her hand to stroke his cheek. “I’ll be all right. It’s what we have to do.”

She smiled then, her face becoming soft, and for a moment, Miles smiled back at her too. He reached up and grabbed her hand, running his thumb along her palm. “Okay,” he said, his voice quiet. Who knew it would take nearly being slaughtered by a horde of zombie-like Nanotech people to make him feel close to her again? 

Miles cleared his throat and spoke up. “Okay,” he said again, looking back at the group. “Rachel and I will find a wagon at sunrise. Be on guard. And prepare to move.”

 

  

 

_Miles was, to be frank, a little annoyed. His mother and father meant well, of course, but having him and Bass be the entertainment at his own birthday party was a little irritating at best. True, chicks dug a guitar player, but he wasn’t exactly in the position to pick up chicks when sitting in his parents’ backyard surrounded by family friends. Who was he going to pick up here? His second cousin? Good god, even if she_ were _attractive, he wouldn’t fall so low as to flirt with someone related to him, no matter how distant. In fact, making him and Bass be the entertainment for the evening was only serving to help Bass’s likelihood of getting laid; after all,_ he _wasn’t related to anyone here. Miles scowled._ Might have to put a moratorium on Bass fucking anyone related to me _, he thought._

_Of course, his pseudo-brother was blissfully unaware of the stubborn irritation that had seeped its way into Miles’s stature. No, instead, his best friend just prattled on with a smug smile. “Oasis?” Bass asked with a shrug. “That’s a crowd pleaser.”_

_“Why not? It’s not like we have a choice.”_

_“Oh, cut the emo crap,” Bass said, slapping him on the arm. “We’re on leave, surrounded by people we_ don’t _have to see change into uniform every single day, and you’re what? Moping over the free BBQ and your parents praising your sorry ass? It’s not like everyone here isn’t leaving you piles of cash on their way out.” Bass plucked one of the strings on his guitar and paused. “Hey, you could upgrade your wheels. That’ll make up for not getting laid on your birthday.”_

_“Or we could go out tonight after everyone leaves.”_

_Bass nodded. “I like the way you think, Miles.” He strummed his guitar once. “I like the way you think.” He straightened up on his stool and gave a half-wave to Miles’s mother as she walked by. Charming bastard. “So Oasis then?”_

_“Sure, whatever.”_

_But that was when Rachel Porter stepped into his line of sight. Ben had disappeared into the house somewhere, leaving her all alone at a party where she didn’t know anyone. Their eyes locked through the din of family members catching up, and she smiled. Her cheeks were plump and pale, like snow. Miles couldn’t help but smile back. His gaze lingered on her soft blue eyes—_

_“No. Oh, hell no, Miles. Not happening.” Bass grabbed onto his arm and pulled him around. “Miles, man,” Bass said with a shake of his head as Miles began to rapidly blink in response. “Not her. You can’t screw her.”_

_“Who said anything about—“_

_“Dude, your brother’s going to propose, you know that right?” Miles gave a sharp intake of breath, and Bass pressed on. “That’s why she’s here, why they’re visiting for a week from Chicago.” Bass leaned back and released Miles’s arm. “Ben told me earlier.”_

_Miles risked another glance back at her. “But—“_

_“He wants to introduce her to the family, then take her to the sea tomorrow and pop the question. And I know I may have seriously fucked up with Emma, but trust me,” Bass said with a shake of his head, “Dipping into your brother’s fiancee? Bad news. Very bad news.”_

_Miles scowled. “I’m not you.”_

_“Sure, yeah. Of course you’re not.” Bass strummed his guitar again. “Don’t worry. We’ll find you a dirty little blonde tonight to work off your frustrations. Huh?” He lightly backhanded Miles’s shoulder, a jovial grin once again crossing onto his face. “Now come on. Oasis, right?”_

_Miles looked wistfully back towards Rachel one last time, but she had disappeared into the house. “Sure. Whatever.”_

 

 

Charlie was unceremoniously awoken the next morning by heavy footsteps and the sound of an almost irritable cough. With a small groan, Charlie opened her eyes to find Sebastian Monroe standing over her with a shotgun. “Get up,” he said, his voice cold.

She scrambled into a seated position, unconsciously pulling the covers up over her chest. Oh, she was fully dressed, but after Monroe had stumbled upon her and the Ranger getting rowdy, she was more than a little self-conscious, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “What the hell—“

“We have a mission,” Monroe said. He turned on his heel and paced three steps away before he pivoted and faced her again. “The mission doesn’t involve you sleeping the day away.”

Charlie frowned. “Blanchard said—“

“I don’t care what Blanchard said,” Monroe interrupted. His voice was cold, dangerous, and for a moment, Charlie flashed back to the day they had first met, the day he was the dark and unfeeling General Monroe. His eyes were just as intense and hard now as they had been on that day nearly two years ago. “If you have enough time to fuck around with the Rangers, you have enough time to be useful. Now, do you want to stay here as Blanchard’s little puppet, or do you want to go kill some Patriots?”

Something was off about him—about this whole scenario—but Charlie found herself quirking her eyebrow. She really, _really_ wanted to get back into the field. “When do we start?”

For a moment, Monroe looked genuinely surprised. The hard mask he wore wavered and Charlie saw the much more relatable Monroe that she’d become used to fighting with. She wondered if she’d shocked him by complying with his request so quickly. Then the hard steel was back in his eyes and he set the shotgun down on her table. General Monroe was back. “First, we plan an attack.”

 

 

 

Tom Neville felt apprehensive about waiting around while Miles and Rachel went off to secure a wagon from a nearby town, but he didn’t really have a choice. A wagon would speed up travel immensely, and it would create defensive cover if their group was ever attacked while they let the horses rest. Inarguably, the group _needed_ a wagon to survive… but it would only do them any good if the Nanites didn’t attack before Rachel and Miles returned. And thus, this inactivity was driving him crazy.

It didn’t help that Aaron Pittman lay like an inactive ball on the ground for the entire time that Miles and Rachel were gone. It meant that Neville had to be extra vigilant; Aaron wasn’t watching his perimeter. Death itself could ride into camp wearing a bedazzled rainbow jumpsuit, and Aaron wouldn’t notice; the science geek was that preoccupied with his own thoughts.

“I’ve got a question,” Connor said, pulling Neville’s attention back to him. In one of his more brilliant defensive ideas, Neville and Connor sat side by side, but Neville faced the east and Connor faced the west. That way, they could see anyone approaching from both directions. “It’s been… kind of bugging me, but are the Nanites the biggest threat?”

Neville quirked an eyebrow and leaned back a little. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” Connor pressed on. “Maybe it’s because I don’t really remember this technology crap, but aren’t the Patriots… you know, actually killing people in large numbers? Can’t the Nanites wait for now?”

Tom sighed and faced forwards more firmly. The boy was naive. “You heard Jack,” Neville said, strict authority in his voice. “The Nanites helped implement the Patriot reeducation program. They have their proverbial hands in everything. Who knows? Maybe stopping the Nanites will weaken the Patriots.”

“But that’s not why you’re going along, is it?”

“No.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Neville felt Connor twist round to look at him. The boy’s voice was hard, but Neville refused to turn around and face him. “You’re looking for revenge, aren’t you? For Jason.”

“Study your perimeter, boy,” Neville barked in response. “We can’t miss a thing.” There was another pause, and Neville waited until he heard Connor slowly shift around to face west again before he answered. “If destroying the Nano will bring honor to my son’s memory, then that’s what I _will_ do.”

There was another brief pause, before Neville heard Connor sigh. “Figures,” Connor muttered under his breath. He gave a short, dry laugh. “Your son’s dead and you’re still running missions for him. My dad? I bet you my dad has forgotten all about me. I bet you he’s barely even noticed I’m gone. He probably wouldn’t even lift a finger if I died.” Connor scoffed, and for a moment, Neville wondered if Connor was talking to him anymore. “God, what I wouldn’t give for that. To have my dad care… To have somewhere to go…” Connor snorted. Though Neville couldn’t see the boy, he could hear the waver in his voice and feel the slight trembling of his shoulders. “I have no where to go.”

Neville’s voice was quiet but firm as he spoke. “Shut up.” He felt Connor grow rigid, felt the boy turn to look at him, but Neville didn’t take his eyes off of the perimeter. “You do have somewhere to go. Now watch yourperimeter. We can’t defeat the Nanotech together if you’ve gotten us killed, now can we?”

It was as sentimental of Tom Neville ever got, but for Connor, it was enough. He blinked his eyes and furiously shook his head. Then he hardened his face and returned to watching for any unwanted visitors.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 10, in which everyone departs from their current locations, will be posted on Wednesday.


	10. I Miss the Misery: Act 5

The next time Bass met Charlie in her tent, it was with a fully stocked pack and a complete arsenal of weapons. Charlie was just finishing up her necessary arrangements for their trip to kill as many Patriots as possible when Bass threw his bag to the floor of her tent. Dirt kicked up around them, wafting around their feet. “You’d best bring a jacket,” he said. Then he cracked a smile and added, “Winter is coming.”

Charlie blinked. “It’s the middle of September.”

His smile fell. “I know.”

“Fall is coming.”

“Never mind.” He stooped over her table, looking one more time at the map they’d spent the past four hours working on. They’d roughly sketched out the various camps around Texas belonging to the Rangers: their strongholds, their ammunition stores, their outposts. In addition to that, Charlie and Bass had made some educated guesses as to where the enemy Patriots were hiding. Their best guesses were helped along by the one concrete thing that Miles had left behind for Bass: a map, with assumed locations of the Patriots sketched out on it. Bass would never tell Charlie (she would never let him live it down if he did) but Bass treasured the hell out of this map. It wasn’t much, but Miles was trusting him with _something_. “We should make it to the first target in a week.”

“Less if we can barter for a horse,” Charlie agreed. She met his gaze once more. “Was that a joke?”

This time, it was Bass’s turn to look up in surprise. “Huh?”

“The winter thing. Was that a joke?”

Sometimes, he forgot about all of the pop culture she had inevitably missed out on. And then there were times like these when she wouldn’t let him forget. “Yes,” he said with a cocked eyebrow. “I sometimes do that. Your Uncle Miles isn’t the only funny one in the family.” Charlie opened her mouth to protest, but Bass held up both hands and cut her off, “Or not family. Whatever. Just bring a fucking jacket.”

She rolled her eyes but nevertheless began rolling her coat into a cylinder to be tied at the top of her backpack. “When will we be back?”

“Whenever we need to reload on weapons,” Bass said without taking his eyes off of their maps. He froze, then, and his eyes flicked up to hers. He felt a little guilty about not asking her if she wanted to do this; he’d more or less ordered her to attack the Patriots with him. Nevertheless, Bass had the strangest feeling that if she hadn’t wanted to go, she would have told him to get lost. He held her gaze and forced the words out: “So long as that works for you.”

In response, Charlie slid a handgun into the waistband of her jeans and grabbed her crossbow from her cot. “Guess we better aim carefully,” she said with a wry smile, “because I don’t want to come back until we’ve taken out a few dozen Patriots.”

 

 

It took Miles and Rachel a few hours to return with the wagon, and in that time, Tom and Connor had very stubbornly kept watch, almost without blinking. Once the awkward lovebird had returned and dismounted from the wagon, they worked quickly with Tom and Connor to load their belongings into the back in an effort to keep moving. In the back of his mind, Aaron knew he should help; the faster they organized their belongings, the faster they could continue fleeing from the Nano.

Yet Aaron was haunted by the vision of Priscilla—his Priscilla—rising from the dead. Her throat being slit, her body falling to the ground… And that chilling, blank stare and plastic smile that overtook her face as she rose again once more. He shuddered just thinking about it and closed his eyes, but even then Priscilla was there. She was following him, taunting him, and it broke his heart.

A hand on his shoulder caused Aaron to jump, and he turned to find Rachel staring with a soft smile. “Come on. We’re about ready to go.” He nodded once; his lips felt as though they were glued together and he didn’t trust himself to speak. “Please, Aaron?” Rachel prompted once more. Again, he said nothing, but he allowed her to lead him towards the wagon.

“We’ve got to move fast,” Miles said as he tossed his pack into the bed of the wagon. “We’ve lost too much time camping out as it is.”

“The Nano won’t follow us.” Maybe it was because he had barely said a word in the last day, but the whole group turned to stare at him in shock—to be honest, he was kind of surprised he’d spoken at all—and Aaron was forced to add, “They won’t follow us yet, anyway. They’re waiting until they know what our plan is. They’re probably watching us right now. Assessing us.” Connor visibly shuddered, but Aaron pressed on. “They’re going to wait until they know what we’re doing. Then they’ll calculate a way to stop us. Then they’ll attack.”

There was a moment of silence before Miles deadpanned, “Great.”

“We should still hurry,” Rachel said in a calm tone. “Even if we’re theoretically safe, we don’t want to chance anything.”

“Right,” Miles agreed. “Tom, help me adjust the horses. Kid,” he said with a nod towards Connor, “double-check that we’ve grabbed everything. Just in case.”

As the three men went to work preparing for their departure, Rachel laid a hand on Aaron’s arm. “Hey,” she said in a soft voice. “We should talk. About… about what happened.”

Aaron tried to pull his arm from Rachel’s grasp but she squeezed down until he was forced to give up. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Priscilla—“

“Is dead,” Aaron finished. He struggled to look at Rachel straight on, and his gaze dropped to the ground. “She died.” He drew in a shaky breath; he was trying to hold it together because his people needed him, but all Aaron could see was Priscilla’s smile; all he could hear was her laugh. “I should’ve known there’d be causalities.”

“Aaron,” Rachel said, a small note of scorn in her voice. “I know you loved her—“

“Of course I did,” he said cutting her off. He could still see his wife—or was it ex-wife? Dead wife?—locked in a headlock by Davis, a knife pressed to her throat. Priscilla, his Priscilla. With a trembling hand, he removed his glasses; maybe if the world went blurry, her face would become too distorted to see. But no, even without his glasses, Aaron’s mind produced a perfect image of Priscilla, and if squeezing his eyes shut or impairing his vision wouldn’t make her go away, then what would? 

“We’ll keep fighting,” Rachel was saying, though Aaron frankly had no idea what she was talking about; he’d tuned out her ramblings many minutes ago. “For her. We’ll fight for her and take out the Nanotech—“

“That’s not what she wanted,” Aaron spat, bitterness in his voice. “Priscilla… She didn’t want to fight the Nanites. She wanted us to move on, to settle down somewhere and just… live.” He buried his face in his hands, his nails scratching at his eyelids. “God, this is all my fault.”

“It’s not—“

“The hell it isn’t.” Aaron shook his head and dropped his hands. “She’s dead because I couldn’t let go, because I dragged her out to Idaho on some stupid mission… What the hell was I thinking? That we could be saviors?” He snorted and dug his thumb into the center of his chest. “I’m not a savior. I’m _nobody_ ’s choice for a savior. I should have listened; I should have stayed behind—“

“You’re wrong,” Rachel said. She tried to keep her voice soft and her tone sympathetic, but she could feel impatience rising within her. “We need you, Aaron.”

“Yeah?” His voice was manic, almost hysterical as he added, “Well prepare to be disappointed, because I’m done. I’m so, so done.”

“You’re giving up?”

He laughed then, a dark laughter that was undercut by his sobs. “Yeah. It’s what Priscilla would have wanted.”

He was all set to commit to this plan as well. He would board Miles’s wagon, ride with them until they reached Utah, and then he would hitchhike his way to California. Or maybe he’d settle in the Wasteland; that was as good of a place as any to die, right? He was ready to commit, but Rachel’s next words stopped him cold. “So you’ll just let the Nanites keep using Priscilla’s corpse?”

He froze. “Rachel—“

“What if you run into her again?” She stepped closer, pressing her advantage. “What if they send her to you, to taunt you or tease out information—“

“Stop it—“

“What if they send her back to her family? To the people she trusts?” Rachel rocked back on her heels as she saw Aaron pause; she’d won this battle and she knew it. “What if Priscilla waltzes into the Texas Rangers camp and Charlie dies because of it? Could you live with that?”

Aaron’s breath was coming in quick huffs when he answered, and for a moment, Rachel was genuinely shocked by the anger she saw in his eyes. It felt like an important moment, one that should be drawn out and filled with lengthy pauses, but Aaron’s answer was harsh and quick, as though he just wanted to get it over with. It made Rachel wonder if Aaron had really been willing to abandon the fight after all. “Fine. I’m in. But only until I can kill her. Once I kill Priscilla, I’m done, got it?”

Rachel’s face softened, her expression turning serene, but on the inside she felt a sense of triumph. “Of course.”

From his position near the front of the wagon, Miles called out to the group. “Come on, dipshits. We’ve got to move.” He climbed up into the driver’s seat of the wagon and turned to watch Rachel, Aaron, and Connor get into the back. To his surprise, Tom took a seat next to him. “You don’t think I’ll let you drive, do you?” Miles asked.

Neville simply gave his best used-car-salesman smile and said, “Of course not. But who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky and someone will knock you out.”

Miles rolled his eyes and flicked the reins, bringing the horses to life and urging them into motion. Tom smiled and leaned back in his seat—settling in for the long journey—but as his eyes scanned the grassy plains they were leaving behind, he caught sight of Jason standing near the treeline. His son was watching them, a small smirk on his face, and as the wagon rolled past, Jason brought a single finger to his lips.

Miles noticed Neville’s sudden silence and frowned. “You all right?”

It was all Neville could do to swallow and face forward again. “Of course,” he said. “Don’t be an idiot.”

 

 

It was late in the evening when Charlie and Monroe met up with Gene at the edge of the Rangers’ camp. They were fully stocked with enough weapons, ammo, and food to get them through the next few weeks, so long as they were smart and rationed their way across Texas. Of course, Blanchard hadn’t wanted to part with any of the supplies; he had argued that the weapons were for Rangers only.

“Okay,” Bass had reasoned, a sly smile on his face. “That’s fine. But think about this: we’re willing to hunt down fringe members of your enemy, people you’ll have to kill no matter what. And see, we aren’t a part of the Texas Rangers, which means we aren’t beholden to any of your rules.”

He’d known he was walking into this one, but Blanchard had rolled his eyes. “So?” Blanchard had pressed.

“So if we happen to commit any war crimes in an effort to gain information for your sorry ass, Texas won’t be held accountable.” It had taken Blanchard another moment of thought before he’d ultimately agreed to supply Charlie and Bass’s hunting mission.

The pair lingered at the gate that led into the Rangers camp; Bass was more than ready to leave, but Charlie was struggling with saying goodbye to Gene. Maybe it was because he was the last member of her family she was still in contact with—-she would still argue until she was blue in the face that Bass didn’t qualify—or maybe she was afraid she’d never see him again. Regardless, as she wrapped her arms around him to hug him goodbye, she squeezed him as tight as she could before pulling back. She forced a smile onto her face. “We’ll be back in a few weeks, Grandpa. You promise you’ll be okay until then?”

Gene waved them away with a shake of his head. “Yes, yes of course. Go on.”

To Charlie’s surprise, Bass stepped up and offered Gene his hand. “Thanks, old man.”

Gene rolled his eyes. “Old man?” But he nevertheless accepted Bass’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Remember what I said, Monroe. I meant every word of it. You watch out for her.”

Charlie wanted to groan or roll her eyes in frustration. She wanted to protest for the umpteenth time that she could take care of herself—that she _would_ take care of herself—but she restrained. Instead, Charlie felt her eyes drift over to Monroe’s. He was watching her as well, and in the surrounding night she thought that his eyes looked black. He was still watching her when he told Gene, “She’ll be fine.”

 

 

Miles, Rachel, Aaron, Connor, and Tom made good progress; they passed through a large mountain range by early the next morning and had settled in at the base of the range to grab a few hours of rest. They weren’t exactly peaceful—nor could one call them happy or even relaxed—but the band of five seemed content with their travels thus far. There was no screaming or fighting between the lot of them. No one looked ready to storm off or shoot someone in the face. No, there was a simple air of wary watchful that permeated their travels.

Near the top of a particularly rocky ridge of the mountains, however, three figures looked down upon the group with a bit of wry disdain. The older two—Jack and Priscilla—were focused on the small child that stood between them. The child’s expression was the hardest to read; he stared at the sleeping horses and pacing soldiers down below with intensity, almost willing them to look up. Eventually, he spoke. “Follow them,” he said without taking his eyes off of the group. “We’ll check in from time to time.” The child took a step back and both Jack and Priscilla turned to hold his gaze. “We may have to intervene sooner rather than later.”

In that moment—as though someone had blinked—the child disappeared, leaving Jack and Priscilla to continue keeping watch over the group that rested in the shade of the high mountains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Charlie and Bass begin their journey together, will be posted on Wednesday.


	11. Counting Stars: Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys... I'm updating on time! Yay! 
> 
> This was a fabulous chapter to write, and the next four will be pretty epic as well. I have some great tricks up my sleeve for the 5 "Counting Stars" installments. You have been warned.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! Drop me a line below with any questions or comments. Thanks!

It took them a week of walking before Sebastian Monroe and Charlie Matheson even came close to finding anything. Charlie felt as though the two of them had simply been wandering aimlessly for the last seven days, hoping they’d stumble upon some devoted Patriots to take out. As it turns out, that might have been more productive; you see, the reason Charlie and Monroe were struggling to find _any_ Patriot was because they were working from The Map.

The Map was the only piece of information about the war against the Patriots that Miles had left behind for Monroe when Miles had departed for Idaho. It was all Miles had trusted him with, and as a result, The Map took on such an importance in Monroe’s mind that Charlie always thought of the stupid piece of paper as though it were a title, not an object. The reverence with which Monroe studied The Map, the self-assured way he’d make plans, it was all because Miles had left The Map for him. Frankly, Charlie found the whole situation rather disgusting.

She knew The Map was outdated. That much had become clear to her when, two days into their voyage, they’d snuck up on a supposed Patriot camp only to find a graveyard of Patriot bodies in its place. A few miles further north—where a large stronghold was supposed to be—Charlie and Monroe had stumbled upon a deserted campground. The pair had searched the camp, hoping to find some clue as to the Patriots’ destination, but what they’d found instead were a few forgotten guns, a basket of dried fruits, and a med-kit with antibiotics inside.

From these items, Charlie could conclude only one thing: the Patriots had fled in a hurry.

That, more than anything, had proven to Charlie that The Map wasn’t relevant, but Monroe still wouldn’t deviate from it, probably out of his misguided respect for Miles. So the pair continued to follow the course Monroe plotted out on The Map, hopping from one supposed Patriot camp to another and always coming up empty. In a weird twist of irony, Charlie found herself more bored hunting for Patriots than she had been playing guard back at the Ranger camp.

“I don’t understand,” Monroe muttered for the thousandth time. “They should be here. The map says they should be here.”

“They were here,” Charlie said with a roll of her eyes. She gestured to the scuff marks in the dirt and the black ash from a recently-doused fire. “Probably as recently as yesterday.”

“They must be moving to the next camp.” Monroe set his pack down on the ground and pulled The Map from it. “It’s only a few miles north of here. Come on. We can make it by sundown if we hurry.”

Charlie sighed as she felt frustration build within her. “Or we could _stop_ pushing north.”

Monroe’s brow furrowed as he looked back up at her. “The map says—“

“The Map is wrong.”

He leaned back on his heels and Charlie watched as his features hardened. “Miles thought—“

“Miles isn’t here,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t matter what he thought, it matters what _I_ think.” Charlie could tell that Monroe had fallen into one of his stubborn moods; his mouth was set into a firm line and his eyes were cold. She wouldn’t win this argument, and she couldn’t take him worshipping that goddamn map anymore, so she tightened the straps on her backpack and said, “You know what? I think I’m going southeast.”

Monroe’s mouth dropped open, but his voice was calm as he said, “The map doesn’t show any Patriot camps out there.”

“Then it should be a peaceful walk.” Without waiting for a reply, Charlie turned on her heel and began heading back the way they’d come from. To be honest, she wasn’t entirely sure what the plan was—where she would really go, if Monroe would tag along, what would happen if he didn’t follow her—but she didn’t care. All Charlie knew for certain was that she couldn’t spend another minute moving aimlessly north.

She heard his footsteps scrambling over loose dirt before she felt his hand squeeze around her bicep. His grip was tight, almost painful, but she barely noticed. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” His voice was deep, laden down with anger, and when Charlie met his gaze she could see his eyes were dark and hooded.

She tried to yank her arm from his grasp, but he only squeezed tighter. “Southeast. I told you.”

“The plan was to follow the map north—“

“The Map sucks,” Charlie spat back. She took a purposeful step closer to him, bringing her face within inches of his and added, “I’m changing the plan.”

He scoffed and gave a quick shake of his head. “What makes you think you have the right to change the plan, Charlotte?”

Charlie gave a haughty smile and resisted his grasp once more; this time, he let her go. She ignored the urge to rub her bicep, and put as much stubborn sass into her voice as was possible as she replied, “What makes you think you can stop me?” Once more, she set out back the way they’d come, and once more, she was stopped. This time, however, what stopped her wasn’t Monroe physically restraining her. No, this time Charlie froze when she heard the sound of Monroe cocking his rifle. She paused, her weight unevenly distributed between her feet as she wondered whether or not she could take another step. “You aren’t going to shoot me.” She struggled to keep the uncertainty out of her voice.

“Interesting bet. Care to take it?”

But there was something in the casualness of his tone—a tone that so contrasted the frustration and anger she knew he was feeling—that had Charlie repeating with more confidence, “You won’t shoot. You promised Miles and Gene you’d protect me, not kill me.”

“A nice shoulder wound might be acceptable.” But Charlie’s genuine laughter had him lowering the gun a few inches.

“You wouldn’t risk it. Miles has started to trust you again. You wouldn’t risk that just to prove a point.” Without hesitation, Charlie started to walk again. For awhile, she didn’t hear anything, and she wondered if Monroe would really just let her leave. 

After a moment, though, he fell into step beside her. He still held the rifle in his hands, but this time he’d managed to put his backpack on again. “I could force you to go north,” Monroe said after a long moment of silence. “Sling you over my shoulder—“

“I’d like to see you try.”

For a moment, Charlie wondered if he actually would; she saw his muscles tense and she could see the determination slink across his face. Yet it all melted away a second later, leaving Charlie leading the charge towards the southeast corner of Texas and Monroe muttering to himself about the irritating girl beside him.

 

 

“I don’t know what you think we’re going to find out here.” The silence that stretched between them was broken only by the sound of their footsteps crunching over a dry dirt road. There were do leaves, no rocks, no critters anywhere in sight. Bass tried again. “We haven’t seen a soul in hours.” She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t even acknowledge that he existed, and it was starting to piss him off. “You’re wasting our resources, Charlotte.” Even that brought forth no reaction. She’d been freezing him out ever since they started deviating from the map. Now, hours later, it was officially driving him insane. “Leave it to a kid to play fast in loose with food—“

She stopped walking and spun around, stepping right into his path. “Shut. Up.” Her voice was calm, but her eyes were deadly, the icy blue sparking with a warning note. “Don’t say another word until we make camp.”

“It’s cute you think you can tell me what to do.” But Charlie just spun around and walked off without another word. _The kid thing_ , Bass thought to himself. _That’s what set her off_. He’d take that information and file it away for further use.

He didn’t say anything, but Bass was smiling as he followed after her.

 

 

“Oh, this is nice. Real nice, Charlotte,” Bass said, sweeping his arms out to encompass the entire desert that surrounded them. “We’ll be well protected here,” he added sarcastically. They were no where near any civilization, buildings, or even tree cover. Instead, they were camped in a flat, lifeless desert that stretched as far as either of them could see. Any attacking Patriots would be able to spot them from miles away.

“Shut up.” She tossed her backpack on the ground and bent down to find her sleeping bag.

“Well, at least we’ll be able to watch our killers come closer. Nothing like a little anticipation to make dying better. Trust me,” Bass said as he crossed his arms over his chest, “I would know.”

“You talk too much, Monroe.”

 

 

It took the pair of unlikely travelers half of the next day to make it out of the desert and back onto a road of any kind. Though the asphalt was cracked and missing large chunks, it was nevertheless a road, and it would presumably lead them to some form of civilization. Charlie was personally relieved to find that she hadn’t accidentally gotten them lost or killed; Monroe never would have let her live that down. 

After a few more hours of walking, they approached a thriving metropolitan town called Rosebud. There was heavy wagon traffic going in and out of the small city—people milling around on the roads outside—and Monroe and Charlie both quickly decided to move off to the woods that surrounded the northernmost part of the city.

The pair hid in the tree-line, looking down at the expansive town below. Bass could make out hundreds of blocks of houses, shops, and taverns. He could see a church or two, and even what looked to be a town hall, complete with a giant wedding tent attached to the back of the building for outdoor events. Bass hated to admit it, but Charlie had inadvertently led them to a rather promising place: either they’d find Patriots nearby or they’d be able to restock in Rosebud. Either way, it was a win.

The pair spent a few hours circling the perimeter of the town, watching it for any signs of Patriot life. “I don’t see any uniforms in town,” Charlie said as she peered through her binoculars.

Bass didn’t need to double-check her observations to trust that her assessment was correct. “So either they’re going for subtle…”

“Or it’s a Patriot-free town.” Charlie sighed and handed him the binoculars. “Of course. The one promising target we find has been scrubbed.”

Bass leaned against a tree as a smirk slipped onto his face. Oh, she still had so much to learn. “Not exactly.”

Charlie quirked an eyebrow. “You see something I didn’t?”

Bass shook a finger at her as he glanced back towards the town. It was a gamble, but Bass had always been particularly good at making educated bets… “You have good instincts, Charlotte. This is the perfect place for the Patriots to hide out. But Texas declared war on the Patriots. They aren’t welcome here, and they know it.”

“What’s your point?”

“Well they still need supplies, don’t they?” Bass pushed off from the tree and moved towards her. “They’ve got to stock up so they don’t drop dead, which means they have to stay near a town just like this.”

It was then that Charlie caught on. “Somewhere big enough that they can slip in unnoticed, but small enough that the Rangers won’t patrol.”

“Exactly.”

“All right,” Charlie conceded. She crossed her arms over her chest, her hands tightly gripping her elbows as she asked, “So what’s our play?”

 

 

They waited until night fell—when the sun had just started to sink beyond the horizon and the sky was losing its light—before they began to weave through the trees. It was slow going at first (too many hazardous tree roots sticking out of the ground) but eventually, Charlie and Monroe fell into an easy, silent advance towards the back half of the forest. They figured they’d find the Patriots camped a few miles outside of town, but still under the cover of trees.

It was completely dark by the time they found their targets—which made avoiding precariously positioned tree roots all the more difficult, as Charlie soon realized—and it was only from the smothered laughter that Charlie and Bass noticed the group camped to the west of where they were heading. Instantly, the pair dropped low and exchanged glances. The enemy group was far enough away that they couldn’t hear Bass and Charlie, but… “If they’re smart, they’ll have someone patrolling the perimeter,” Bass muttered.

Charlie met his eyes and nodded once, the movement tight and minuscule, before she set her backpack down against a tree and pulled out her crossbow. Bass held onto his rifle and waited until she had armed herself to her heart’s content. Then, Charlie scanned the area while Bass copied her actions, pulling a spare handgun and some extra ammo from his bag.

The two abandoned their backpacks for the moment, leaving them resting against a crook in one of the trees—hopefully out of sight to anyone casually scanning the area—and pressed forward. The needed to get closer to assess the situation, but if they moved in too much, they’d give away their positions.

They crouched and ran to an overturned log a few yards closer to the group and pressed themselves against it. No one shouted or gave them away. Bass and Charlie locked eyes. “We should get reinforcements,” Charlie whispered. “I count eight.”

“Nine,” Bass corrected. “One pissing behind a tree in the back.” Charlie rolled her eyes but silently cursed herself for not noticing him first. “Just us,” Bass added, addressing her comment about reinforcements.

She didn’t say anything in response, but Charlie cocked her head to the side and stared up at him from underneath her lashes. Bass knew the look: she was telling him it was a bad call, that the safe thing to do was come back when they had a clear advantage, but Bass could only shake his head in response. He knew the moment she caved—Charlie briefly closed her eyes and twisted her body until she could peer from out behind the log.

He watched as she surveyed the scene, and he knew instantly when something was wrong because her brows furrowed. She sunk back behind the log and looked at him. “They have standard Patriot weapons.”

Bass blinked. “So?”

“They aren’t in uniform,” Charlie explained. “They might be deserters.” She hesitated before whispering, “Does that matter?”

It was a question that had been circling the Texas government ever since the country had declared war on the Patriots. What was going to be done to those who deserted the Patriot army? Should they be rewarded for coming over to the right side? Shot for having been a Patriot at all? Given amnesty and nothing more? How could the Texans know for sure who was deserting the Patriot army because they disagreed with what the Patriots stood for, and who was deserting simply because they were cowards?

Bass didn’t know the politically correct answer—he was never good at politics, anyway—but he knew the answer he believed in at the moment. He was itching for a fight, for doing anything more than sitting around and waiting, like he’d been doing ever since Miles had left. So his eyes were hard when he murmured to Charlie, “Not to us.”

She nodded her consent and reoriented herself into a crouch. Bass may have been annoyed by a hell of a lot of what Charlie Matheson said or did, but one thing he admired about her was how quickly she could snap into action mode. She tilted her head towards a tree to her diagonal and Bass nodded once in understanding. As she quickly jumped over the log and behind the tree, Bass leaned down into a sniper position behind the fallen log. When Charlie was settled into her new place, he caught her gaze and they both opened fire.

It took the Patriot deserters a moment to understand what was going on, and in that time Bass saw one of them fall face first into a tree with an arrow sticking out of his back. Bass had assumed they’d be able to take out three or four of these guys before they really started to fight back, but he was oh so wrong; the deserters were quick, quicker than anyone he’d seen fighting before except for Miles.

Bass had barely fired off three shots before he was ducking behind the log for cover. He felt bullets drill into the log, making it quake and roll a little on its side—this wouldn’t work. Grabbing his rifle, Bass stayed low and ran for the nearest upright tree.

He felt a bullet whizz by his ear, but he made it to the tree just fine. He was nearly parallel with Charlie, who had abandoned her crossbow and had instead opted for the handgun. Thanks to her constant barrage of bullets, the deserters were firing less frequently, but the pair was still massively outnumbered.

They could hear the sharp _click_ as Charlie’s gun ran out of bullets, and she ducked back behind the tree to reload. Like a choreographed, fluid dance, Bass immediately leaned out and began firing in her stead. It was so dark, though, and the bullets were being fired at him from all angles; he knew he’d hit a couple of the deserters, but he couldn’t tell if he’d made kill shots or not. He leaned back behind the tree again and his eyes snapped to Charlie’s. She was shaking her head, and he knew the message behind her stare: _we need to get out of here_.

But Bass was stubborn; he wasn’t going to agree. At least, not until he heard one of the deserters yell “ _Patriots_!” and then all hell broke loose.

Suddenly, Bass and Charlie weren’t the only ones the deserters were aiming at—definitely not a bad thing; in fact, Bass thought it was a decidedly _good_ thing—but the new, incoming Patriots clearly viewed him and Charlie as enemies too, and they weren’t discriminating in who they were firing at. In a matter of minutes, they’d become exponentially more outnumbered; it was time to go.

Bass gave Charlie a quick nod before leaning out to fire back towards both enemies. He just needed to provide a big enough distraction for Charlie to find an escape route; she was good at that, way better than he was. Sure enough, within seconds and without warning, Charlie vaulted over the fallen log and darted to hide behind his tree. “Town’s that way,” she said pointing to her right. “Past our packs is a drop off point about thirty yards to the right.”

It killed him to say it, but they were far too outnumbered. “Leave the packs.” He loaded the last magazine into his rifle, caught her eye, then spun and began to fire. “Go.”

She was so quick, so lithe as she darted through the trees and towards the drop off point, and in the hail of gunfire and deadly projectiles flying through the air, Bass realized their enemies hadn’t even realized that Charlie had fled. 

With the _click_ of his rifle informing him that his gun was empty, Bass dropped it and followed suit. He was a little more clumsy in his sprint towards the edge—he nearly ate it tripping over a tree root and had to grab ahold of a low-hanging branch to keep his balance—and the Patriots definitely noticed him. A few shots hit the dirt near his feet, but then Charlie was peering out from behind a tree near the drop off point and sending return fire towards the enemy.

He didn’t slow as he approached her; he just grabbed her arm and yanked her towards the edge. He thought he’d end up dragging her over, but Charlie had apparently expected him to manhandle her like that, because by the time they reached the steep slope that led down into the town, Charlie was running down with him.

The terrain was less than ideal; it wasn’t rocky—thus ample with footholds—but was instead grassy. Bass made it about a third of the way down the slope before his foot slipped out from under him and he began to slide down the hillside. Charlie threw out her arm to catch him, but his weight and momentum only succeeded in pulling her down as well, and then they were both tumbling down, down, down.

They collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the hill. He couldn’t speak for Charlie, but Bass felt as thought someone had taken a baseball bat to his neck. Bass opened his eyes and winced only to discover that he’d landed partially on Charlie… in perhaps the most awkward way imaginable. His torso was half on top of her hips and his head was resting on her jean-clad pubic bone. For a moment, he was frozen—his chin digging into what he hoped was just part of her hip, or maybe even her thigh—but then he took a raggedy breath and he heard her hiss and he knew exactly what part of her body his chin was resting on.

Never before in his life had he been so happy to hear gunfire. The sound was drawing closer to the two of them, and Bass used this as an excuse to jump up, pulling Charlie to her feet with him. Her eyes were on his and for a moment, Bass worried that she’d want to talk about what just happened—it had been a freak accident; an awkward accident, but an accident nonetheless—but the intensity in her eyes only said _never fucking speak of it again_. He nodded once, and just like that they were both running towards town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 12, in which Charlie and Bass have to blend into Rosebud, will be up on Wednesday.


	12. Counting Stars: Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god, I'm so excited for you guys to read this chapter. It's been percolating around my brain for awhile now, and I'm glad to get it down on paper and have you guys finally see it! I really hope you enjoy; please drop me a comment down below if you do. Thanks!

“I told you,” Charlie muttered as the pair slipped through a gate and into a back alley in the town Rosebud. The alley was dark—thank god—and Bass watched as Charlie ducked down and peered up at the hillside and the woods beyond. It looked like no one was following them… for now. She turned back to face him. “I told you reinforcements were a good idea.”

“Didn’t push for them very hard, now did you?” Bass snapped back in reply. They were both panting, and Bass pressed against the back of a building and mirrored Charlie’s actions. His eyes scanned the hill they’d just run down and the forest above it for any signs of life, but after a few minutes of awkward silence, there was still nothing in the distance. “I think we’re good.”

“Hardly,” Charlie said. “Our stuff is up there.”

“We’ll get it tomorrow.”

She snorted and tucked her gun back into the waistband of her jeans. “Because that doesn’t sound like a trap.”

“Hey, we have what’s important,” Bass said as he straightened up. “We have some diamonds, we have our guns and a few rounds of ammo left, and we’re not dead.” He looked back up towards the hill. “I call that a win.”

“It’s sad how low the bar has fallen.”

He scowled but forced himself not to react. “What we need to do is blend in. Find a place to sleep. Keep to ourselves but also be seen doing normal things—“

“Like not shooting Patriots?”

His glare burned—he wanted to slap the sarcasm right out of her—and he felt his hands curl into fists, but he tried to keep calm. “I don’t think they got a good look at you, so if anyone comes searching, they’ll be looking for two men.”

“Or so you hope.”

“We’ll blend in tonight, then go hunting tomorrow. If we can pass for plain normal, no one will remember us. Or is that too difficult for you?” In response, Charlie set off down the alley and towards the center of town. Bass sighed and slid his gun back into the waistband of his jeans. “Really?” he asked as he stalked off after her.

The town, thankfully, appeared to be blissfully ignorant to all that was happening on the hillside above. Families were walking about with their children, couples were crowding into bars for a date night, and a few elderly were headed into the church. The streets were lit with lanterns hanging every few feet, giving the town an ethereal orange glow. Charlie was in awe; it had been awhile since she’d been to a true-blue, normal town. For the past year, she’d spent her time traversing from one war-torn and corrupt city to another. Willoughby, Austin, even New Vegas. Rosebud reminded her of a large-scale version of where she used to live with Maggie, her father, and Danny. There was something homey and safe about the small town.

“There,” Monroe said, breaking her reverie. He pointed to a tavern that sat on the corner of the block opposite the town hall. “They have room and board.” Or so the sign in the window said, anyway.

The tavern was quiet in comparison to the bar that sat a few blocks away, but it was still full of patrons. Charlie was a little surprised to see most of the women wearing dresses and the men wearing clean white button-down shirts. These choices were inconvenient and rare for both genders; dresses weren’t practical for a hearty, powerless lifestyle, and white shirts never stayed clean for long. The last time Charlie had worn a dress—besides the time she seduced a drug lord with her uncle, that is—she’d been in her early teens, attending a town funeral.

Naturally, Monroe took charge and led them over to the bar. Charlie stayed close—within arms reach but slightly behind—and scanned the corners of the bar for danger as they approached. Everything seemed to check out in this charming little town. It was perfect, and that scared her.

Monroe leaned his elbows on the bar and called out for the bartender, and Charlie copied the movement, though she kept one hand hanging down at her side—the better to quickly reach her gun. It took a moment, but a young man in his late twenties with short black hair approached and nodded towards them both. His shirt was crisp and clean, and his hair was slicked back away from his eyes. “What can I get for you?”

“A room, if you have one.” Monroe said as he pulled out the pouch that contained their diamonds; Charlie shifted closer to him in response, as a way to better protect their financial security. “Preferably something in a quiet section of the property?”

The man suddenly grinned at them both and held out his hand for the diamonds. “Ah, honeymooners?” 

Monroe paused for a moment as Charlie froze; then, he handed the man some diamonds with a quick grin. “How could you tell?” he asked with a quick glance towards Charlie. She had her eyebrows raised, but other than that she stayed silent, playing along with the cover story that had fallen into their laps.

The bartender shrugged. “Rosebud gets a whole lot of honeymooners and young couples. Keeps the town energized and my bar well-funded.”

“A lot of wealthy couples, if your cliental is anything to go by,” Monroe said, jerking his thumb towards the patrons. Charlie rotated her hips and glanced towards where he was pointing. So Monroe had noticed it too; everyone in this tavern looked like they were going to a fancy party. “Everyone always dress this way?”

“Nah,” the bartender said with a shake of his head. “There’s a revel tonight, out behind the town hall. First one for a few months.” The man handed over the short brass key to their rooms and added, “It starts in a few minutes. You should try and catch it.” Monroe’s eyes widened and he visibly perked up.

Charlie couldn’t help herself; she had to intervene. “A revel? What’s that?”

Monroe’s head snapped in her direction, but the bartender spoke first. “You’re kidding,” he said, a note of awe in his voice. “You’ve never been to a revel before? Where are you _from_?”

“Small family,” Monroe said before Charlie could open her mouth. He cocked his head to the side and added, “they lived on the edge of nowhere and didn’t get out much. That’s why I promised her a nice honeymoon; show her the world.”

“Or what’s left of it,” the bartender said with a grin.

“Exactly.” Monroe glanced back towards the crowd. “The revels… they any good here?”

“You’ll have to find out,” the bartender said. “I’m just about to close up shop and head over there myself, so if you want up to your room, now’s the time.” The man smirked, and Charlie was a little put-out by the sort of knowing leer in his eyes. “Course, a good-looking couple like you might want a little time to yourselves.”

Charlie physically bristled at the insinuation, taking a half step back. It was all she could do not to say anything; thankfully, Monroe stepped in for her. “We aren’t so… active that we’ll avoid normal interaction, you know.” His eyes had narrowed, the smile fading from his face.

The bartender didn’t look at all concerned by the pair’s sudden annoyance, though. Instead, he simple shrugged and said, “It’s your call. Personally, I think you could slice that sexual tension with a knife—“ Charlie opened her mouth to protest but the bartender looked her straight in the eye and said, “Don’t deny it, honey, you move when he moves. Hell, you both orient yourselves around each other in a way that makes me think you were breaking a chastity vow long before this honeymoon, but hey, what do I know?” He stepped away from the bar, moving off towards another customer with a wide grin on his face. “Maybe a little dancing’s all you need to get things going.” He waggled his eyebrows once before turning around.

Charlie wasn’t often surprised nowadays—fighting against Nanites does that to a person—but she couldn’t help the wave of shock that flowed through her as she stared at the empty space the bartender had just left. It took Monroe shoving the key into his pocket and muttering a husky, “Come on,” to jolt her into action at all.

The crowd outside of the tavern had grown a little thicker as people pushed their way towards the town hall. A bell began to ring—probably signaling that the revel was about to start—and the throng of well-dressed men and women herded them towards the tent behind the large white building. Charlie frowned, nervous; she had no idea what to expect, no idea if this was dangerous. “What exactly is a revel?”

Monroe glanced down at her, a smirk crossing his face. “I can’t believe you’ve never been.”

Charlie scowled. “Yeah? Well some crazy military dictator was in charge, so my dad didn’t let me leave town.”

The smirk immediately dropped off of Monroe’s face and his voice was tight when he answered. “A revel is like a dance… sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Everyone knows the songs and everyone knows the dances,” he explained. “It’s choreographed. Back in the day, we’d call it a flash mob. But less wimpy,” he added with a chuckle. There was a blank look on Charlie’s face, however, so he sighed and added. “They’re pretty cool.”

“How would you know?”

They were nearing the tent and the noise volume had risen considerably as the people became confined to the giant off-white tent. By Charlie’s estimation, you could probably fit four or five hundred people in that quaint little outdoor space. Being surrounded by such a large crowd made her tremble a little with anxiety, so she wrapped her hand around the hilt of her gun. After a moment, it steadied her nerves.

Monroe sighed and spoke with a tight voice. “I’ve been to revels, Charlotte.”

She blinked. “Really?”

They stepped into the tent, and Monroe’s eyes were light with laughter as he said, “Yes. Does that surprise you?”

She didn’t answer and instead moved forward, entering the tent. It was packed with people all dressed in their finest clothing. Near the back of the tent—raised on a rickety wooden platform—a band consisting of a few guitars, a small drum set, a fiddle, and a few other string instruments Charlie couldn’t identify strummed a few notes to quiet the audience. A hush fell over the crowd, and Monroe led Charlie off to the back corner of the tent. “It’s about to start,” he explained. “Spectators have to get out of the way.”

Near the center of the floor, a large group of people appeared ready to dance. They held hands with a partner, were relatively young, and were looking at the band expectedly. The perimeter, however, held people of all ages who looked excited to watch the event unfold. Once again, as Charlie scanned the crowd, she was struck by how seemingly normal this all was. None of these people looked like they had a gun tucked into the waistband of their pants; none of the women looked like warriors. Was this what she’d be doing right now if her father hadn’t been killed by Tom Neville?

“I think that’s the guitarist from One Republic,” Monroe muttered with a slight frown as he stared up at the band.

“Who?”

“Oh, they were a mainstream, poppy version of the pretentious leather-armband wearing freaks Nickelback,” Monroe absentmindedly explained with a scowl. “Figures one of them would survive.”

Charlie hardly found that information helpful. “ _What_?”

The guitarist strummed a few more notes, and everyone in the tent stared at him, transfixed. He began playing a melody—something Charlie noted as familiar but couldn’t quite place—and it was clear that whatever a revel may be, it was starting. Charlie wrinkled her nose; she wasn’t impressed.

The guitarist then began to sing, his sole voice carrying out across the wide tent. “ _Lately I’ve been, I’ve been losing sleep. Dreaming about the things that we could be…_ ”

Charlie sensed Monroe stiffen and frown before she actually saw it, and she whipped her head around to look at him. “What?” she asked. But his eyes were narrowed in on the band and he looked as though he were struggling to recall something. No one was moving in the tent; everyone simply watched the band. Charlie for the life of her couldn’t figure out what was so special about this event; it seemed like a normal concert to her. But Monroe wouldn’t move, wouldn’t even look at her, so she repeated, “What?”

The singer finished the verse. “ _Yeah, we’ll be counting stars…_ ”

Just like that, the tent sprang to life. The entire band kicked in, playing a happy, jaunty melody that breathed life into the dancers, and all of a sudden they were weaving in and out of each other in an impossibly synchronized jig, swinging from one person to the next in steady arcs, and before she knew it, Monroe was laughing.

She blinked, too astonished to ask what was so funny or even what was going on, and then the whole picture of a revel changed before her eyes as the spectators around the perimeter showed that they weren’t there simply to watch but to also add volume to the music and to _sing_. “ _I see this life, like a swinging vine…”_

“What…” Charlie repeated, but this time it was in a slight daze as she watched some of the dancers pair up and begin twirling together in the center of the crowd.

She looked to Monroe to find him grinning larger than she’d ever seen before—all flashes of malice or insanity gone from his eyes—and he met her gaze. “I actually know this one,” he said, raising his voice over the noise.

Charlie’s mouth dropped. “You do?”

But Monroe was too focused, his eyes locked on the dancers in front of him, as though trying to remember something from long ago. Charlie noticed people from the crowd jumping in as dancers pulled their friends and family out into the spinning sea; she didn’t realize Monroe’s intention was to join them until he sent her a wicked grin and stepped into the crowd.

“ _And IIII feel something so right by doing the wrong thing…_ ”

Charlie watched in awe as Monroe clasped hands with a stranger and swung into the mix, clasping hands with someone else, and suddenly he had worked his way near the center of the dancers, swinging from partner to partner as the group twisted and weaved until the chorus hit and he was left paired up with one girl.

The girl was young, younger than Charlie even, but she was graceful and energetic as Monroe danced with her. He spun her into his chest and then dipped her low. She watched as they both laughed, and Charlie noted that if she took her eyes off of him, she could easily lose Monroe in the crowd of dancers; he fit. He wasn’t a deranged dictator or a squirrelly murderer. He was just a man, her uncle’s best friend, and it was utterly unsettling. She’d never seen him look so natural and relaxed before.

“ _We’ll be, we’ll be counting stars…”_

The chorus ended, and with that came the end to the partner work and the return of the dancers clasping hands and swinging from person to person. Charlie was almost relieved to watch Monroe work his way towards her; the closer he got, the easier it was to remember him as General Sebastian Monroe and not a normal man relaxing at a town party.

He reached her with a grin. “Not bad, huh?”

She tried to feign indifference, but she had the sinking suspicion that her awe was evident on her face. “It’s okay.”

_“I feel her love, and I feel it burn_ …”

Monroe raised an eyebrow. “I’d like to see you try.”

She scoffed and crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t think so.”

“No?”

She shrugged. “No reason to.”

Monroe surprised her, then, by smirking and pointing at himself. He sang along to the lyrics, “ _Old, but I’m not that old._ ” Her eyes narrowed as Monroe pointed at her, “ _Young, but you’re not that bold._ ” 

She felt her jaw stiffen as she stared him down, bristling at the taunting way in which he dared her to jump into the mix, to try dancing—something she’d never done before in her life. She had no desire to give it a try; Monroe may have been graceful, but she sure as hell was _not_. Yet there was something about the revel that intrigued her—maybe it was the notion that once upon a time, this could have been her life—and she recalled Monroe’s words from earlier that evening: _blend in_.

She felt a strong need to prove him wrong.

“ _And IIII feel something so wrong by doing the right thing…_ ”

Without hesitation, Charlie reached out and clasped the hand of a stranger, allowing herself to be pulled onto the dance floor. She heard Monroe bark out a quick laugh behind her before he rejoined the mix too, swinging through the crowd after her. She reached out for the next person’s hand but found none there; the group had stopped moving and she was left without a partner—her heart started to race, what the hell was she doing, this was a nightmare, she couldn’t dance—

Monroe reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her to him.

“ _Everything that drowns me, makes me want to fly…”_

And then they were moving, Monroe holding onto her the entire time and leading her through the steps. She was clunky and awkward—she definitely tripped over her own feet at least once—but he never laughed or called attention to it, and when he spun her and dipped her, Charlie didn’t feel quite so clunky and out of place anymore. She smiled and enjoyed the rush of the wind in her hair as she straightened up. For a moment, it was easy to match the mirth in Monroe’s gaze, to forget about everything around them, about the Patriots fighting on the hill above them. Even as she stepped on her own feet, she couldn’t help but smile at the feeling of normalcy, of strangers dancing beside her just for fun. 

_“Oh, take that money, watch it burn…_ ”

Though Monroe had proven himself to be a reliable partner, Charlie was more than relieved to find out that this part of the dance was, apparently, not choreographed. The dancers jumped up and down in time to the music, clapping every time they landed, and she felt even more at ease—this, she could do. Charlie caught Monroe’s eye and she actually laughed. If all of the Monroe Republic could see the big bad president now, jumping up and down like a small child, his curls bouncing, they wouldn’t ever fear the Scourge of Scranton again. The beat sped up and Charlie jumped faster, keeping time to the music and enjoying the rush and wind against her skin—

Monroe grabbed her arms and pulled her to him as the music stopped and the dancers froze. The original singer’s lone voice was the only one she heard as she stood with Monroe’s hands wrapped around her biceps and stared into his blue eyes—somehow hooded and intense even in mirth—adrenaline spiking through her veins. For a moment, the entire world felt crystalized—locked in a block of ice and preserved in time—and even though it was Monroe who held onto her arms, Charlie couldn’t move.

“ _Everything that kills me…”_ —his eyes started to burn into hers, they were so blue, so strong— _“makes me feel alive…”_

And then the moment broke and he was guiding her around the dance floor again, twirling her through the steps of the chorus. She didn’t stumble through them quite as badly as she had the first time—she even managed to anticipate the dip so her heart didn’t nearly fly out of her chest—and her laughter had returned as the song finally came to a close.

“ _Sink in the river the lessons I learned.”_

Monroe was still holding her hand as everyone in the tent began to cheer and applaud, and Charlie couldn’t help but grin. There was a knowing look in his eyes as he smiled back at her, a look that screamed _I knew you’d enjoy this,_ and even though Monroe had been right (and she’d had fun), Charlie felt a burning need to win. 

She leaned in close to Monroe with a triumphant smile, watching as his brows raised. “Told you I could do it,” she said, before she pulled her hand away and walked back towards the perimeter. She still had a grin on her face and she put an extra jaunt in her step. Charlie couldn’t see it, but Bass’s eyes followed her hips all the way back.

 

 

They stayed at the revel for another hour. Charlie didn’t dance much more for the rest of the night—occasionally, someone lacking a partner tried to pull her out; if the dance was slow enough, she let them—but she was okay with watching from the sidelines. There was something relaxing about just standing off to the side and watching people have fun. Perhaps it was because this sort of thing was so in contrast with her regular life; why, just a few hours ago, she’d been getting shot at by both Patriots and deserters. Now here she was at a revel laughing like a teenager.

Bass didn’t know most of the songs that were played at the revel, but he did join in for the ones he’d learned back in Philadelphia. Though he’d been quick to jump into the center of the group during the first dance, he made sure to stay on the edge for the rest of them with Charlie in his sights at all times. He pretended to be fully occupied in what he was doing—it wasn’t hard; he thoroughly enjoyed revels—but in reality, he spent way too much of his time observing her.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something different about Charlie that night, something he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t her intensity—that he saw every time they went into battle—or even her confident swagger—which he pulled out of her whenever they verbally sparred. No, there was a happiness in her that he’d never seen before, and for some reason that inner light made it impossible for him to look away.

Or maybe his eyes were drawn to her because Charlie was blatantly watching him with a look of awe. Every time he left her on the sidelines to join in the revel, her face would become questioning, her eyes studying him like she’d never seen him before. Then the song would end and he’d find his way back to her, and a cold mask of indifference would have settled on her features again, a mask that would disappear every time he rejoined the dancing. It was like she could only be open when he wasn’t around. Bass wasn’t sure if that annoyed him or intrigued him. Maybe a bit of both.

Yes, there was something different about her, and he struggled to keep his composure and not make it blatantly obvious that he couldn’t look away.

They left before the revel officially ended. Bass thought it would be a good idea to exit while most of the town was still preoccupied, and Charlie agreed without a word. The silence between them as they left the tent was thick—uncomfortably so—and Bass struggled to find something to say.

“How’d you like your first revel?”

To his surprise, a genuine smile flitted across her face for a second before she schooled her features and answered, “It was… better than I thought it would be.”

He chuckled under his breath. “I see.”

They fell into silence once more, and apparently Bass wasn’t the only one who felt uncomfortable with it because Charlie asked, “How did they start?”

He shrugged and glanced behind him once to make sure they weren’t being followed. “Too many bored people with nothing to do. Folks need something to look forward to, something to talk about, especially without TV.” He sighed and absentmindedly rubbed his forearm, where the scar from his Monroe tattoo was. “I think they started cropping up in small towns just by coincidence. People having the same idea. Then people travelled, word spread, songs and dances and the like were exchanged… I don’t know. They just became popular.” He laughed once and glanced down at her, surprised to find her looking back with an open and calm expression on her face. “I remember once, about six years back, I snuck out to one in Trenton, and the revels hadn’t been going on for very long out there, so they only knew four songs,” he explained. “But everyone had a lot of fun and no one likes a revel that ends after twenty minutes. They’re supposed to be hours of entertainment. So instead of packing it in, they just played the same four songs over and over again.” He shook his head, a fond grin sliding onto his face. “I tell you, it was like listening to a high school rock band rehearse, it was painful. But still a hell of a good time.” He glanced down at Charlie again to see a thoughtful look on her face. “What?”

Her tone was guarded and Bass instantly began to worry. “Just surprised, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“I’d have thought you’d condemn revels, not join them.”

  
Bass felt the air get trapped in his lungs as he struggled to keep walking, so stunned was he by her words. “Condemn them? Why would I do that?”

Her expression was schooled and she spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. “The way I remember it, Monroe, you weren’t a fun, friendly leader. You pretty much destroyed every happy thing I knew.”

He didn’t know what to say without losing his temper, so he said nothing. He was more hurt than anything else, hurt that they could have had such a fun and thrilling night only for Charlie to then negate it all by bringing up his past. They walked in silence the rest of the way back to the tavern.

 

 

An elderly woman had pulled the short straw; she was working behind the bar when Charlie and Monroe walked in, and it was she who poured a grateful Monroe a large glass of whiskey. Charlie asked for one too, and Monroe didn’t wait for her as he headed towards the back of the tavern and began climbing the stairs towards their room.

She caught up with him as he was unlocking the door—a glass of whiskey in her hand and an annoyed expression on her face—and he said nothing as he brushed past her and into the room. There was a double bed, a wooden rocking chair, and a rickety nightstand in the room, upon which sat a water basin and a wash cloth. Monroe went straight for the rocking chair and sat down, sighing as his weary body made contact.

Charlie rolled her eyes; he’d been in a bit of a mood ever since they’d left the revel, and as far as she was concerned, he could keep his melodramatic sighing to himself. She took a sip of the whiskey, enjoying the burn that encased her throat. Charlie wasn’t entirely certain how to feel; on the one hand, she’d really enjoyed the revel—she hadn’t laughed like that since she and Miles had stolen a train—but on the other hand, it was Sebastian Monroe who had been a big part of that laughter.

It was near impossible for her to admit, but part of the fun wasn’t the music or the crowd, and it certainly wasn’t the dancing. It was seeing Monroe act like a normal person. In those moments, the ones where he wasn’t a deadly warrior or a sleazy flirt, he was just a normal guy. Charlie could _almost_ see the Bass that Miles had been friends with for all of these years. Almost.

She took a rather large sip of the whiskey and glanced at the sullen Monroe who sat in the corner; best not to encourage these thoughts. Clearly, he still the same old Monroe.

Charlie kicked off her shoes and pulled her gun out of her waistband. Toying with it briefly, she set it down on the table. They needed to broach the subject of who would take first watch, but before she could say anything, Monroe spoke.

“It was about curtailing violence, not destroying happiness.”

Charlie paused, uncertain. “What was?”

“The militia.” Monroe’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and he added, “The Republic. You don’t know what it was like before, Charlotte. Before there was any form of government, even a shitty government like mine.” His eyes fell back down to stare into his whiskey glass. “A lot of people died fighting over food and water. Miles and I were trying to create some order. We wanted to keep our people safe. Our families safe.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “It didn’t work. Never does.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow. “That’s morbid. And also wrong. Miles has kept me safe. Me, Aaron, Gene, Priscilla.” She paused and reluctantly added, “My mom.”

Monroe was silent in response, and Charlie knew there was something he wasn’t saying, something he was holding back. He kept staring into his damn drink, and Charlie sucked in air—Monroe looked dark, way darker than she’d ever seen him before. For the first time ever around him, she felt real, genuine fear. Only she wasn’t afraid of him; she was afraid _for_ him. “Monroe?”

“A lot of people died. Good people. My family.” He was still staring into that glass, and Charlie wondered for a moment if he knew she was there at all.

She tried to piece together what he was saying. “Your family died in the Blackout?”

Monroe gave the smallest shake of his head. “My family died in a car crash. Before the Blackout. All of them. In one fell swoop.” He shut his eyes and brought the glass of whiskey to his lips.

She didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

He scoffed. “Miles was the only family I had left, and it wasn’t enough. My parents… my sisters…” Finally, he met her gaze and said, “So one night, I went to their graves and put a gun in my mouth.”

Charlie felt her eyes widen, her heartbeat increase. Never had she heard this story; never would she have guessed that the man she loathed so much would have ever contemplated suicide. She couldn’t speak; there weren’t any words that felt appropriate. She reached for her drink.

“Never got around to pulling the trigger,” Monroe continued. He swirled the contents of his glass before lifting it to his lips and downing the rest of the whiskey. “You know who talked me down? Miles.”

A faint smile came to Charlie’s lips. “Sounds like him.”

Monroe chuckled, but the sound was dark. “Yeah, well. Blame Miles. Blame him for everything. If the bastard had just let me blow out my brains, Ben would still be alive.” He snorted. “Bet Miles wishes he’d never saved me. Hell, I’m sure most of the country wishes the same.”

She didn’t know what to say to him; he looked broken and defeated, and it actually made Charlie reconsider what she knew about him. But at the same time, Monroe himself had brought up a very good point: his republic was the reason Ben was dead. Ben, and Maggie, and Danny, and even Nora. How could she forgive him for it all just because he had a past? 

Her instinct was to get up and comfort him, but she fought against it because of who he was. Instead, she forced her voice to be strong as she said, “Miles has never been good at making wishes. He once told me if he could have anything in the world—realistic or not—it would be condoms. Whatever they are.”

That actually sparked a genuine grin from Monroe, and he finally met her eyes. “That’s irony for you. Condoms were a man’s personal hell until they couldn’t make any more after the Blackout. Now hell is pulling out,” he muttered to himself.

Charlie pretended not to hear that last bit; she had no desire to consider the romantic aspects of Monroe’s life. “Maybe your intentions were good—maybe,” she stressed as Monroe’s eyes widened. “But even you have to admit your republic was shit.”

To her surprise, he shook his head. “It didn’t start out that way. Laws were tight, don’t get me wrong. Miles and I, we had a zero tolerance policy for violence and the like. But things were good. On a whole, we were moving in the right direction. And then…” he trailed off with a grimace. “Then word reached us that Georgia was recruiting American rebels to take down the republic. And after a terrorist attack on Georgia—which I’m _sure_ those fucking Patriots had a hand in—well, the war started and things escalated. Laws grew tighter, penalties harsher. Then Miles left and things got way the hell out of hand. And you know how it ends.” He raised his glass as though to take a sip before he realized that it was empty. He set it back down.

“You know the problem then, right?”

He cocked one eyebrow. “Should I?”

“Yeah. Clearly the problem’s you.” She said it without malice, without hatred, and without ill intent. He looked at her—fairly astonished that she’d have the balls to say that to him—but Charlie just gave a lighthearted shrug. “I think you’re a shit leader.”

If you’d told Charlie Matheson that you could call Monroe a shit leader and live to tell the tale, she’d have called you a liar. If you’d told her he’d start laughing at such a suggestion, she’d have brought you in to see a psychiatrist. But laugh Monroe did, his whole body rocking with mirth, and Charlie could only stare at him in shock as he nodded once and said, “Yeah. Maybe.” He stood, stretching his arms over his head, and then he gestured towards the bed. “Sleep. I’m getting another drink. I’ll take first watch.”

“You sure?”

He rolled his eyes and didn’t reply. He simply walked out the door and back downstairs. The truth was, he didn’t need to sleep; instead, he planned to stay up the whole night sitting in that damn rocking chair, thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which the Patriot hunt continues, will be posted next Wednesday.


	13. Counting Stars: Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh, so I'm late... by a week! The real world just kind of clobbered me. There was a work situation early last week, and then there was a death in my best friend's family. So, I am currently watching her little sisters for the whole week while her parents are out of town. And I love them like they're my own sisters... except for when we play "Just Dance" for 4 hours straight. Then I want to cry.
> 
> So please forgive the lateness of this chapter! I promise, the next one will be on time!

When Monroe had insisted on taking the first watch, Charlie had assumed that he would wake her five hours in and take over, as per their usual arrangement. When she woke the next morning, however, the sun was shining through the window of their motel room, and Monroe sat frozen in the rocking chair, one hand still clasped around the empty whiskey glass.

For a moment, Charlie wondered if his heart had stopped in the middle of the night. Monroe was utterly immobile—barely even blinking—and his eyes were focused on the door to the room, but they were glazed over, like he wasn’t actually seeing it. A part of Charlie questioned if he were watching the door simply out of habit, and she wondered how quick his reaction time would be if someone were to suddenly attack. Maybe he wouldn’t even notice.

She was filled with uncertainty as she watched him—there were bags under his eyes and his joints looked stiff. What could be plaguing him so deeply that he’d lock himself inside of his own head like that?

She made sure to move slowly as she sat up, just in case she startled him. However, Monroe appeared to be so lost in thought that he didn’t even notice. She frowned and cleared her throat, hoping to capture his attention. Nothing. “Monroe?” she tried again. This time, he released a small sigh, but he still did not move. She was starting to get annoyed; was he just ignoring her? With a furrowed brow, Charlie slid the ragged blue blanket off of her hips and slipped her feet to the floor. She approached cautiously, hands upright in the universal sign for I-mean-no-harm. “Monroe?”

It was only once she stepped in front of the door—thus blocking his line of sight—that Monroe blinked and met her gaze. “It’s odd, don’t you think?” he rasped, his voice creaking with dryness. “No one came looking for us, did you notice?”

Charlie blinked. That was the _last_ thing she thought a contemplative Monroe would say. “Uh, sure,” she said. “Did you want me to keep watch now—“

But he physically waved the thought away, his elbow joint making a tight _popping_ sound. The chair he sat in was old and rickety, but his own bones made more noise. “I’ve seen no Patriots in the vicinity of this town. None in plain clothes. None in uniform…” He met her gaze, and Charlie was struck by the slight dash of crazy in his eyes. “Isn’t that odd?”

She sighed. “Well, yeah. I guess.” Whatever had kept him awake all night, Monroe clearly didn’t want to discuss it. Charlie tried to focus on the military strategy conversation he apparently preferred. She thought back to her night at the revel—skipping over her foray into the dance world—and frowned as she analyzed the details. “Everyone in town has been relaxed.”

Monroe nodded. “Too relaxed for a country at war.”

Charlie met his gaze firmly. “But the Patriots have to be getting in somewhere. Otherwise, why would they be camped outside town?”

He agreed with her. “That means we have to find their way in.” He stood swiftly, and if it weren’t for the way his joints creaked, Charlie wouldn’t have known that he hadn’t slept all night; suddenly, Monroe was right back into his controlled general mode. “Get your gun and get ready,” he said with a demanding stare. “We’re going hunting.”

 

 

The pair combed through every inch of the town—every side-street and ally, every building with a backdoor or potential cellar. They were friendly to the passersby they saw in the streets, but also taciturn; they tried to blend in and be polite but be ultimately forgettable. Charlie took the lead for this mission; she was young and looked relatively innocent, so she had no trouble sneaking around to the back of buildings or around the perimeter of the town without being noticed. Bass, meanwhile, would stand watch, waiting for her to return with a subtle shake of her head. There were no holes in Rosebud’s defenses, no signs of the Patriots.

They were looking for something out of the ordinary, though neither was entirely sure what that would mean. Maybe it would be a hole in the chain link fence behind the town hall, or a small white flag visible from the tree-line that would act as a signal to the Patriots. It could be anything. Bass and Charlie didn’t know for sure what to look for, which made for a frustrating search throughout the town.

As they combed their way from one side of the town to the other, Bass knew they weren’t making any real progress. Perhaps that was why he found himself growing more and more aware of Charlie. With every step she took, Bass noticed her determined eyes scanning the crowds or the heel of her black boots echoing against the cobblestone street. Occasionally, her long blonde hair would brush against his forearm.

Bass wasn’t sure why he’d told her about his past history with attempted suicide; maybe it was because she still acted surprised that he could do normal things, or maybe it was out of pure loneliness. Regardless, Charlie’s reaction to the news had surprised him. He’d expected scorn or even a flippant response. Instead, he got a very casual commentary on his ability to lead. Come to think of it, it was a very Miles Matheson type of response.

He’d been surprised enough by the lack of condemnation in her eyes and words that Bass had stayed awake for the rest of the night. The intelligent decision would have been to wake her after five hours—per their normal routine—but instead, he found comfort and solace in letting her sleep. Her breathing was even—no snoring, just the occasional sigh passing through her lips—and she had the blanket unconsciously pulled up to the tip of her chin. She looked warm and cozy, and very unlike the Charlie Matheson he’d come to know. It was easy to let her sleep till dawn; just having her there was a comfort.

He swallowed and forced himself to glance behind them, as though checking for a tail. This wasn’t a healthy train of thought to pursue; it was best banished.

“No signs of Patriots,” Charlie muttered as they reached the end of the final street. They stopped walking and Bass noticed just how close she stood. “They haven’t set foot in this town.”

He blinked—once, twice—and forced his mind to focus. “We must have missed something.”

“You doubt me?” There was a note of warning in his voice and Bass’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh, no. Because you couldn’t possibly be wrong.” He placed his hands on his hips and glanced behind him. “We should do a second sweep.”

“That’ll draw attention,” she negated. “One thorough walk through town can be dismissed as exploring. We go through again and we’ll be noticed. We need a plan B.”

He hated to admit it, but she was right. If they really _had_ missed something during their first stroll through town and there were Patriots or Patriot sympathizers nearby, the last thing Bass and Charlie wanted to do was draw attention to themselves. He squinted against the sun and turned around, his eyes scanning the hills behind Rosebud and the forest there. They didn’t necessarily need to find out how the Patriots were sneaking into town. No, Bass and Charlie just needed to draw the Patriots out of hiding…

With a stilted sigh, he turned back to her. “I think I have a plan,” he said slowly, “but you’re going to hate it.”

 

 

Charlie had vehemently protested what she called Monroe’s _fucking-stupid-bad-plan_ at first, but she soon realized that she didn’t have any better ideas to offer. This is how, an hour and a quick meal later, the two of them found themselves disappearing into the trees a mile or so away from where they’d left their backpacks the night before. Or, as Charlie liked to think of it, a mile or so away from the inevitable ambush.

They were counting on the Patriots trying to ambush them; yeah, that’s how bad of a plan it was. They expected the Patriots to wildly outnumber them and to be shot at a few hundred times before Monroe and Charlie even had a chance of gaining a foothold. _If either of us make it out alive_ , Charlie thought to herself _, it’ll be a fucking miracle._

Both of them had their guns drawn, and Charlie took up a position behind a large tree as she waited for Monroe to creep further into the forest. They’d agreed to split up to cover a little more ground and potentially gain some leverage if one of them were to be captured, though Charlie wasn’t entirely sure how much leverage a lone gunman could be. Still, it was General Monroe’s “fantastic” plan; she knew better than to argue.

She waited until he stopped behind a tree about forty yards away. Their eyes met and Monroe gave a quick nod. Simultaneously, the pair drew their guns and began to creep forward.

It felt wrong to be doing this during the middle of the day; Charlie preferred the cover of night to aid in her stealthy missions. Then again, last night’s attack hadn’t exactly gone as planned, so perhaps shaking things up was for the best.

She saw the Patriots before he did and immediately dropped to the ground; Monroe mirrored her movement half a second later. She knew instinctively that he hadn’t seen them, but he trusted her enough to assume she was ducking for a reason.

Three Patriots stood about a quarter of a mile away from where their packs had been left the previous night. The Patriots were evenly spaced—about forty yards between each of them, same as she and Monroe—and Charlie could only assume that there were more out there surrounding the perimeter. She scowled and glanced towards Monroe. This was clearly a trap that they were oh so willingly walking into.

He rolled his eyes in response and focused ahead. If the Patriots had set up a large perimeter, Monroe and Charlie were fucked; the minute the sound of gunfire started, men would come running and they’d be right back to the shit-show they had been in the night before. Moving slowly so as not to make too much noise, Monroe reached into his pocket and pulled out a switchblade.

Maybe another soldier would question Monroe lowering his gun in favor for a small knife, but Charlie immediately caught on; she too pulled a knife from her boot before giving Monroe a tight nod. Moving as one, the pair crept forward—keeping low and using the trunks of trees for cover. This was more like it; Charlie felt at home creeping through the woods, and again she was subconsciously reminded of her life prior to the death of her father. _It’s just like hunting_ , she thought as she silently moved closer.

Monroe, as it turns out, was less graceful and subtle in his movement. He was about ten yards away from the first Patriot soldier—the one on the right, because Charlie was attacking the one on the left—when the Patriot in the middle of the trio spotted him. “ _Hey_!”

Charlie sprang up and stabbed her guy in the throat. She pulled her knife away from his body and tucked it into her pants pocket as she heard a scream from Monroe’s side of the forest. She didn’t have time to contemplate anything (not the noise, not the impeding fight); she yanked the rifle away from the Patriot she’d just stabbed, and then she was running.

While Monroe handled the men in his half of the perimeter, Charlie’s job was to run for and retrieve some more supplies from the packs. She moved as quickly as she could—vaulting over fallen logs and darting between trees—but she wasn’t truly concerned until the gunfire started.

She put her head down and ran faster. There was no way to tell if Monroe was the one firing or the one being fired upon. All she could do was make it to her target safely.

When she finally laid eyes on the packs, she felt happiness and disgust war within her. On the one hand, she was glad the packs had been there at all—were the Patriots under her command, she would have had them removed and pillaged for supplies—but on the other hand, the solider inside of her was frustrated with the crappy military decision to give her and Monroe even the slightest chance to recover their lost property. The Patriots hadn’t actually _needed_ to provide bait in their ambush.

The two stuffed backpacks were resting right where she’d left them, up against a sturdy tree, and Charlie dived for them. She heard the sound of running feet—multiple pairs at that—and she fumbled with the straps of her pack. The feet were coming closer, any second they’d run right into her, and if she gave away her position even more Patriots would be on top of her…

Her hand closed around the handle of her machete as a Patriot came around from behind the tree. By the time he caught sight of her, Charlie had already jabbed the blade into the man’s stomach.

A shout from behind the Patriot found Charlie suddenly staring down the barrel of a rifle. She yanked her machete from the dead Patriot’s stomach—it was too late; she’d never get to him in time—only for the Patriot pointing his gun at her to be shot in the center of his forehead. He went down, and Charlie looked behind her just as Monroe gripped her forearm and pulled them around to the other side of the tree.

“I’ve got two bullets left,” he muttered as he gasped for breath. “You grab more ammo?”

“Not exactly,” she said. She held out the machete and he looked at her like she’d grown an extra head. “I haven’t fired yet; I’ll cover you while I dig for more ammo.”

His eyes grew wide, horrified. “Don’t fire anywhere _near_ me.”

“I didn’t mean—“

A bullet smashed into the trunk of the tree they were hiding behind, bits of bark ricocheting out. Monroe and Charlie winced and exchanged glances. Monroe’s mouth was set into a firm line as he took the machete out of Charlie’s hand. “If you shoot me, I swear…”

She rolled her eyes and pulled the handgun out of the waistband of her jeans. “Kill the fuckers,” was all she said in response.

And then he was sprinting towards the Patriots and she was leaning around the side of the tree, firing at the enemy, forcing them to take cover. It gave Monroe just enough time to slice one from sternum to naval. He pushed the fallen Patriot aside and pounced on the next man.

Charlie, meanwhile, had realized an inherent flaw in her brilliant plan: if she was covering Monroe from behind the tree, she couldn’t drag the backpacks over to her and dig through them for ammo. She heard the telltale _click_ of her gun running out of bullets, pulled out the old cartridge and popped in her final one. She glanced around the tree and towards the packs; she couldn’t reach them, not in time to be of use, anyway. Sticking out of her open bag, however, Charlie could see the handle of a second machete…

Without thinking twice about it, Charlie dove for the blade and grabbed it, using her momentum to roll forwards. She threw out one hand to stop herself and fired once more towards the Patriots, just enough to distract them while she jumped up and ran towards Monroe. She had enough shots left to pick off the Patriots that were back in the distance. That left four men, by her count, at close range. She managed to shoot one in the shoulder before her gun _click_ ed once more. Dropping it to the ground, she raised her machete with a tight grip and moved so that she and Monroe stood back to back.

It was no surprise to either of them that the pair moved seamlessly. When Monroe would lunge forward to stab one of the Patriots, Charlie would step back to defend him. Charlie would swing out towards an oncoming attacker and Monroe would rotate to protect her vulnerable side, and soon, another Patriot fell. The moved in unison, fighting not by sight but instead by feel. Each could sense what the other was doing as they were doing it, and it was almost effortless to respond. It wasn’t so much a battle as it was a dance. _Maybe that’s why dancing with her had been so easy_ , Monroe vaguely noted.

The distraction to his thought process proved costly; Monroe didn’t see the Patriot swinging at him from the left—his blind spot—until Charlie swung her machete around and blocked the shot. “Get your head in the game,” she said, her voice straining as she parried the Patriot’s sword. She swung her machete around and her attacker fell forward—he’d been placing all of his weight on the machete, trying to force Charlie to bend. In response, Charlie stepped away from Monroe and stabbed the Patriot in the back.

There was only one Patriot left, but in defending Monroe, Charlie had broken out of their formation and was now vulnerable. The Patriot swung at her and she ducked out of the way, but the Patriot’s sword nicked her arm and she hissed in pain. With her left hand—her weak hand—Charlie raised the machete to parry.

But before she could, Monroe’s machete clanged against the Patriot’s. He shot his hand out, grabbing the front of the Patriot’s shirt, and dragged the man closer, so that they were face to face. His tone was casual as he said, “This is what you get for messing with Buffy.” Then he stabbed the Patriot through the stomach.

A light giggle met Bass’s ears and he turned around, astonished, to see Charlie genuinely smiling—her eyes light, her lips curled—but she quickly schooled her features and forced a frown on her face. “What?” She reached down and yanked the machete out of the dead Patriot’s stomach, her eyes dropping down to examine the blade. “Aaron used to tell me bedtime stories, remember?” She met his gaze with raised brows. “Buffy’s one bit of ancient pop culture I know.”

Bass was left speechless as she walked past him and over to another body. She bent down to grab the Patriot’s gun.

He should of seen it, but her small moment of happiness had distracted him. In an instant, another Patriot—the one Charlie had nicked in the shoulder earlier—jumped out from behind a tree swinging a sword. Blood was pouring from the open shoulder wound, but the Patriot appeared to be in shock; he didn’t notice. “I’ll kill you!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you all!”

Bass scrambled out of the way—Charlie still had both of the machetes, leaving him defenseless, and he ducked as the Patriot swung wildly. “Charlie!”

But at that call, the Patriot turned and swung at Charlie instead. She used both swords to parry the attack—something she’d seen Miles do a hundred times—but the Patriot was putting his full weight on the blade and her arms were shaking.

“The Avengers are futile, you hear me?” the Patriot snarled as he leaned on his blade, and for a moment, fear pulsed through Charlie. “The Avengers are fu—“ An arrow pierced through his throat, turning his words into gurgles as he slumped forward.

Charlie’s eyes immediately jumped to Monroe’s, but he looked just as shocked as she felt. As one, the pair turned around only to see Duncan Page standing behind them with Charlie’s discarded crossbow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Bass and Charlie get some answers from their mysterious savior, will DEFINITELY be posted on Wednesday.


	14. Counting Stars: Act 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! This might be my favorite chapter so far; I love writing Duncan Page. She's kind of a bamf. I hope you enjoy! Drop me a line with your thoughts down below. Thanks!

Bass felt numb as he took in the appearance of Duncan Page before him: her dark hair was a little disheveled and she had hand-shaped bruises on her biceps, but it was otherwise the same old Duncan Page he remembered. She had the same tight clothing—jeans and a fitted black tank top—the same hunting knife tucked into her belt, and the same knowing glint in her eyes as she pursed her lips and lowered the crossbow. “Sebastian,” she said, her voice a little sultry. “It’s been awhile.”

Bass noticed Charlie slowly straighten up, lowering both of the machetes. She kept a firm grip on them, though, her eyes narrow. Charlie stepped closer to him but remained silent, and Bass realized she was waiting for him to take the lead.

He swallowed and said what they were both thinking. “I thought you were dead.”

Duncan gave a short, stilted laugh and raised her eyebrows. “Haven’t _you_ ever faked your death, Jimmy King?” she asked, a note of mocking audible in her voice.

Bass paused, then conceded with a nod. “Point taken.” It should have been a happy icebreaker—Duncan had saved their lives, after all—but no one moved. The tension was thick in the air, and Bass licked his lips. “I think that’s our crossbow,” he said after a moment. Slowly, he reached out a hand towards it. “Thanks.”

But Duncan stayed where she was, a sly smile on her lips. “Did you attack my boys last night?”

Bass froze, suddenly wary, as he recalled the group of men he and Charlie had shot at the night before. Never would he have guessed the group of guys camping in the middle of the forest—with Patriot-issued weapons, no less—would be Duncan’s men. Beside him, he heard Charlie give a frustrated sigh; he knew exactly what she was thinking: _I told you we should have found back-up_.

“Might’ve done,” Bass replied. For a moment, he considered trying the patented-Monroe-charming-act to wiggle into Duncan’s good graces, but he quickly nixed the idea. Back in New Vegas, it hadn’t exactly worked out well for him; why try now? Instead, he kept a note of caution in his voice, all the while trying to calculate how quickly he could get the machete from Charlie and dive out of the way before Duncan reloaded the crossbow. “Might’ve thought they were Patriots.”

“They were out of uniform,” Duncan noted.

“They had Patriot weapons,” Bass countered. He gave a small shake of his head. “These days, being a Patriot in Texas is hella unpopular. We figured they’d wised up and ditched the uniform in favor of stealth. If we were mistaken… well, sorry. Won’t happen again.”

There was silence between them as Duncan’s eyes flitted back and forth between himself and Charlie. He wasn’t sure what exactly she was looking for—weakness, honesty, fear—but whatever she saw in their faces, it was apparently satisfactory because Duncan relaxed her stance and grinned. “Lucky you’re a crap shot.” She cocked an eyebrow. “I guess we’d better come up with a symbol or something. I’ll have someone sew it onto the clothing of my men so something like this doesn’t happen again.”

Bass nodded and gave a tight smile. “Good plan.”

In response, Duncan rolled her eyes and gestured off deeper into the forest. “Come on,” she said. Her voice had taken on a casual note, but Bass knew that was no indication of her mood. “Let me take you to my camp. I think I have something you might want to see.”

Following Duncan Page—whom until five minutes ago was known to be dead—deep into an unfamiliar forest seemed like the epitome of a bad idea. Duncan was famous for having a bit of a temper, and she’d seemed less than pleased that he and Charlie had attacked her men the night prior.

He glanced down at Charlie and saw her looking up at him with intense, burning eyes and a hardened, set mouth. He could read Charlie’s distrust of Duncan and the entire situation in her gaze; she didn’t want to go anywhere near the camp, and Bass couldn’t exactly blame her. They needed to come up with a plan. Somehow, without even communicating that notion to her, Charlie gave a tight, almost imperceptible nod, and Bass immediately knew that Charlie would back him up if he made a move—

A snort of laughter jolted the both of them into looking back at Duncan. Wordlessly, she sauntered over and held the crossbow out to Charlie. She leaned in close to the girl, until they were only inches apart, and said, “You can eye-fuck him later, sweetie. Right now, come with me.” Duncan pushed the crossbow into Charlie’s hands, turned around, and began walking through the trees.

Charlie had a scowl on her face as she shoved both of the machetes towards Bass. Annoyed, she moved towards the tree where her backpack rested and picked it up. Bass copied her movements—though he was still uncertain about following Duncan into the forest— and after a quick glance around the recent fight zone, he called out to her. “We should strip the Patriots of their weapons,” Bass said as Duncan paused. “Could find something useful.”

Duncan’s smile was coy as she replied. “My men will be passing through here shortly. They’ll take care of it.”

Well that, more than anything else, convinced Bass to follow the eccentric warlord into the forest. Better to be with her—even though she was likely to turn on them at any moment—than away from her if Bass and Charlie could potentially happen on the men they tried to kill the night before.

The three of them hiked through the forest, dodging tree roots and low hanging branches. Bass spent the first part of the walk next to Charlie in silence. He was thinking about Duncan: how she could be alive, what she was doing out here, why she’d saved them. Her hips swayed with every step she took—he couldn’t decide if that were intentional or not—and Bass was reminded of their brief fling back in New Vegas, back when he’d been Jimmy King.

It wasn’t until they’d been walking for a few minutes that Bass realized Duncan could easily answer his questions. He glanced down at Charlie and caught her eye. He nodded once towards Duncan, waited until Charlie indicated she’d understood, and then he jogged to catch up with the irate warlord. He easily fell into step beside her. “Last I saw you, you were running a clan out in New Vegas,” Bass asked, cutting straight to the point. “What the hell happened?”

Duncan rolled her eyes, but a sly smile crossed her face. “I lost at cards.”

“Oh, come on.”

“You know, poker’s never really been my game.”

Unconsciously, Bass reached out and laid a hand on her arm. “Cut the crap.” Duncan glanced down at his hand and looked back at him with a raised brow. With a sigh, Bass pulled his hand away. “You were sitting pretty. What happened?”

Duncan shrugged and looked straight ahead. “The Patriots happened. They targeted me and mine for our strength and numbers. They attacked and tore my clan apart. Lot of people died. Good people.”

“I know. I heard.” Bass tried to catch her eye, but she continued to only look forward. “I thought you’d kicked off too.”

She chuckled. “Yeah, well, that was the plan. Had to fake my death to avoid actually dying.” She quirked an eyebrow but continued to avoid his gaze. “You know how it is.”

“You didn’t tell your men?”

“Couldn’t trust them all,” Duncan admitted with a small frown. “That’s the problem with war clans. Everyone’s always angling to be the next leader, to have the next shot at ruling. I joined a clan after the Blackout to keep safe, but ever since I took one over, I’ve been in more danger than ever before.” Finally, she looked at him, her eyes smoldering with intensity, a wry humor, and just a touch of pain. “You know how it is. Lead for the people and die _by_ the people.”

“Something like that,” Bass agreed. “Although you should know… most of your men were loyal to you.”

She snorted. “Yeah, I bet.”

“They met up with us down near Willoughby,” Bass said. He watched as her eyes went wide, and he was momentarily pleased that he’d told her something she hadn’t known. “Scanlon led the charge. He wanted revenge against the Patriots for taking you out. You’d be surprised how many came with him.”

Her lips curled into a small smile, and for a moment, Bass thought she was actually pleased. “Is that so? Huh. I always did like that boy…” The smile dropped from her face. “You used the past tense. I assume they’re all dead.”

“Patriots killed them,” Bass confirmed.

“No surprise there,” Duncan muttered. “I’ve been after the pricks ever since they attacked. Bastards. They took everything. I can’t wait to wipe them out.”

Bass chuckled. “On a revenge mission?”

“Clearly.”

It was then, however, that Bass recalled what the one Patriot had said to him as he popped out from behind a tree and swung his sword at Charlie. It had all happened so fast—the Patriot’s sudden attack, his even more sudden death, the appearance of Duncan—that Bass had almost forgotten the Patriot’s odd speech. “Wait,” Bass said, his brows knit together. “The Patriot, the one you shot—“

“You’re welcome,” Duncan said with a smug smile.

Bass ignored her and pressed on. “He said something… Something like avenging is futile, or there’s futility in avenging, or—“

“The futility of the Avengers,” Duncan drawled. “I heard. It’s good to see fear of my new clan is getting around.”

Bass’s steps faltered as he made the connection. “The Avengers? Like the Marvel comic books?” He actually laughed—a loud, hearty sound—as he said, “That’s the name of your new war clan?”

“So?”

“You named your clan The Avengers? Like the Hulk, and IronMan, and—“

She quirked an eyebrow and stared him down. “You have a problem with that? With me having a little fun with my new family?”

“Only with your name choice. I mean, I’ve always been a DC Comics man myself.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“The Avengers,” Bass said with a shake of his head. “Jesus.” He peered at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You assign roles to everyone? Pick out your Thor, your Captain America—“

“You know, I _was_ aware of the joke when I came up with the name,” Duncan said. Bass could detect the faintest bit of annoyance creeping into her tone, but he couldn’t help it. He laughed again. “You don’t need to rehash every aspect of it, thanks.”

“Okay, okay,” Bass said, holding up both hands. “Just one more thing: does that make you the Black Widow?”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said without pause. “That title might go to your little girlfriend back there. She’s got you whipped, and from what I recall, she could kill you in a heartbeat. Stop fucking with me, or I might have to make her the next Black Widow.” Duncan quickened her pace, and Bass allowed her to pull away from him.

Charlie caught up to him rather quickly and saw a scowl on his face. “What?” she asked. “Everything okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Bass said, but he couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Just Duncan being Duncan. The bitch.”

It took them another twenty minutes of walking in silence before they arrived at Duncan’s camp. A good forty or so men were milling around a clearing in the forest. Tents were set up around the perimeter of the camp, partially under the cover of trees. Near the center of the clearing and away from anything potentially flammable was a campfire.

The majority of the men—probably at least half, if not more—noticed Duncan, Bass, and Charlie before they’d even cleared the trees. In an instant, Bass and Charlie found themselves staring down the barrels of thirty different guns and with no other options but to raise their hands. Bass glared at Duncan. “Really?”

She said nothing, a wicked grin lingering on her face as she sauntered toward her men. She waited until she reached the man closest to them and wrapped a hand around his shoulder—strong, tan, and sturdy, he looked like he could benchpress a car—before she said, “Lower your weapons. They’re friends.”

Bass and Charlie both waited until every single soldier had their gun pointed at the ground before they lowered their hands and set foot into camp. “You took your sweet time with that,” Bass muttered.

“Got to get my kicks somehow,” Duncan replied. She turned to the meathead and said, “Kyle, this is Sebastian Monroe and his little… friend. Sorry, your name was Charlie, wasn’t it?” she asked, eyeing the girl. “My men always called you the Matheson bitch.”

Charlie said nothing, but her lips pressed together into a firm line. She met Duncan’s gaze evenly—she knew Duncan was trying to goad her, playing a game of power—but that didn’t mean she had to look away and let herself be cowed.

“Monroe and Matheson?” the guy named Kyle said, his eyes narrowing in a glare. “Like from the Monroe Republic?”

“The very same.”

Kyle’s grip on his weapon tightened—Bass reached for his machete—but Charlie spoke before any idiotic scrimmage could begin. “Actually,” she said, “I wasn’t involved in the Republic. I lived out in Wisconsin, the middle of nowhere. Linking me to the Republic is like linking the North United States continent to Europe across the sea, in this day and age: it’s possible, but it’s going to be a bit of a reach.”

“North America,” Monroe corrected under his breath. “It’s North America. Who was your _teacher_?”

Charlie scowled and locked eyes with him. “Not my point.”

“Look at them,” Duncan said as she trailed her hand down Kyle’s arm. “Fighting like a twisted old married couple.” Her hand ghosted over Kyle’s forearm, wrist, then hand, until it reached his fingers. In one, quick motion, Duncan’s grip tightened on Kyle’s rifle and she yanked it away from him. “I told you,” she said, her voice becoming hard. “They’re friends.”

But Kyle was staring at Charlie and frowning, appearing nonplussed about having his weapon pulled away. “That’s the crossbow we recovered out near Rosebud last night, before the Patriots overran us,” Kyle said, looking at Duncan. “Why’s she got it?”

“It’s hers.”

Kyle’s eyes shot to Charlie’s, and suddenly a spark of malice was in them. “You two. _You_ tried to kill us last night—“

But Duncan smacked him upside the head. The camp grew quiet as onlookers stared at the group; Bass silently worried that they were getting too much attention. “You let an old man and a kid get the drop on you.”

Bass frowned. “Old? Really?”

Duncan ignored him. “You want to keep being my lieutenant? Set up a better perimeter next time.” She stepped towards the campfire and gestured for Charlie, Bass, and Kyle to follow. “Come on.”

“I’m not that old,” Bass was still muttering as they followed after Duncan. Charlie rolled her eyes in reply.

With a sigh, Duncan sat down on an overturned log, stretching her legs out towards the fire. Her lips pursed together and she turned to Bass and Charlie. “So you’re out hunting Patriots.”

Charlie was a little annoyed that Monroe sat right next to Duncan, leaving Kyle and her to sit together on another overturned log. Even though they were supposedly safe, Charlie still kept one hand on her crossbow, just in case.

“You know what they say.” Monroe took off his backpack and threw it to the ground by his feet. “Gotta kill ‘em all,” he said in a slightly singsong voice. Duncan and even Kyle smiled at this; Charlie chalked it up to another pop culture reference going over her head.

“We’re hunting them down too,” Duncan explained. “Killing those who oppose us, recruiting anyone whose heart isn’t really in it.”

Monroe frowned. “Deserters? Can they really be trusted?”

Duncan smirked. “Look around, Bass. You’re in a camp filled with ‘em.” Privately, Charlie struggled not to grin; her call last night—that they were about to attack deserters—had been spot on. “I take them in. Give them family and something to fight for. Train them and turn them into vigilantes—“

“Into Avengers,” Bass said with a small smirk.

Her voice hardened. “Yes.” She drew her feet in closer to the log. “By taking in the deserters, we’ve gathered lots of information. We know their military tactics. We know their procedures. We know where they are and where they’re going. Even better? We know a lot of them are really, _really_ confused about what the hell they’re supposed to be doing.”

From beside her, Kyle spoke up. “We take the good souls, the ones who got caught up in this without really knowing what they were getting into, and we use them to fight the rest.”

“Not a bad play,” Monroe conceded with a slight tilt of his head. Then he locked eyes with Duncan again. “ _If_ you can trust them.”

Duncan shrugged, an air of haughty confidence slipping over her face. “We don’t have to convince most of them to help us out. All we want is to protect small Texan towns from the Patriot sons of bitches who want to pillage them for supplies. If, in the process, we decimate the Patriot armies… Well, that’s just a bonus.”

Monroe raised an eyebrow. “It sounds like a well-orchestrated bonus, if you ask me.”

Duncan’s lips quirked as her eyes flitted down for a second. “My motives are pure,” she insisted as she looked back at Bass. “Just because I want revenge, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to protect towns too.”

“Uh-huh,” Monroe said with a sideways glance at Charlie. “Is that what you’re doing in Rosebud? Looking for the Patriots hiding out nearby?”

“Hardly,” Duncan said. “We know exactly where they are. We got here a couple of weeks ago. I’ve had my men secretly scouting the area, planning an attack…” Her smile dropped and her voice became hard. “Then your dumb asses had to stumble into our neighborhood and attract Patriot attention. Now they know we’re coming and we’ve lost the element of surprise. As far as I’m concerned,” Duncan said as she crossed her arms over her chest, “that means you owe us. And because I’m so benevolent, I’ll even give you a choice of how you can repay us.”

“How thoughtful,” Monroe sneered.

“We can either strip you of all your belongings—weapons, diamonds,” she glanced at Charlie, “that pretty little shirt off your girl’s shoulders. Or,” she said in a strong voice as Monroe opened his mouth to speak. “You can fight with us and help us get the element of surprise back.”

 

 

Charlie sat underneath a thick tree late that night with her crossbow in her lap and a scowl on her face. The suggestion had been made (by Duncan, of all people) that she get some sleep—share a tent with one of Duncan’s vigilantes; there was plenty of room—but Charlie would much rather separate herself from the group and keep watch. 

As far as she was concerned, Duncan hadn’t earned their trust. There was nothing keeping her and her men from attacking them in the middle of the night. True, Monroe had established an uneasy alliance with the feared warlord, but a mutual desire to tear apart the Patriots was hardly a solid foundation of trust. 

Even if Duncan and her men didn’t want to do Monroe and Charlie any harm, there was still the chance that the Patriots would attack in the middle of the night. After all, the Patriots were now well aware that an enemy was in the area. And while Duncan theoretically had people patrolling, Charlie wasn’t holding her breath for them to catch anything out of the ordinary, especially since it had been all too easy for her and Monroe to sneak up on the Avengers without their knowledge.

Instead of sleeping, Charlie was content to sit underneath a tree—her back pressed firmly into a crook between the bark and a root—and keep watch with her crossbow in hand. A permanent scowl was plastered on her face, partly to keep Duncan’s vigilantes from fucking with her, and partly because Monroe had suddenly grown lackadaisical in regards to security just because he’d bumped into his “old friend.” No, it wasn’t right that Monroe trust Duncan’s idiot men to have their backs. He should have been out there with her, devising a watch schedule, or at least sleeping until he could take over.

And what was the idiot general doing instead? Why, drinking the night away in Duncan Page’s tent.

Charlie was disgusted by it all: his carelessness, his sudden renewed “friendship” with Duncan, the fact that the pair was probably screwing right now. For a moment, Charlie considered bursting into Duncan’s tent and putting a stop to it, just like Monroe had done to her back in the Rangers’ camp. She’d love to watch _him_ be embarrassed, to have his sexual needs not met. But with a sigh, Charlie realized he wouldn’t be embarrassed, and Duncan would probably make some lewd suggestion about her and Monroe—which was getting _really_ old, by the way—so Charlie simply settled in to watch the perimeter and wait until dawn.

 

 

Away from the watchful eyes of her men, Duncan Page had loosened up considerably. She still had that overbearing confident swagger that Bass found annoying (albeit sexy, too), but some of the bite had vanished from her persona. She straddled a chair, her arms leaning against the back, and watched as Bass poured her another glass of scotch. “You’ve been on your own for awhile now?”

He titled his head to the side as he poured. “I’m not alone. Charlie’s with me.”

“No Connor. Your child get left behind?”

Bass jerked the bottle of scotch upright and turned his back on Duncan. He was glad she couldn’t see his face as he set the bottle down. “Hunting isn’t his thing,” he said at last.

“Uh-huh,” Duncan replied, but there was a note of disbelief in her voice. Bass took a sip of the liquor and relished the burn that coated his throat. Duncan prodded once more, “You know, you may have that girl with you, but something tells me you’ve been on your own… physically, at least, for awhile.”

Bass let out a bark of a laugh. “Physically? What the hell does that mean?” When he turned around, however, he found Duncan standing once more, her hand perched on her boney hip. Her eyebrows were raised and she had a knowing look in her eyes. “Oh,” Bass said as he caught on. “It’s… been awhile, yeah.”

She wrinkled her nose and stepped closer. “I can tell.” With a quick toss of her head, she knocked back the scotch in one gulp.

Bass’s brow wrinkled and he held out a hand to stop her. “I’m sorry, didn’t you say I wasn’t as good of a lay as I thought I was?”  
  
To his irritation, Duncan outright laughed and rolled back onto her heels. “Yeah, I might’ve.” Seeing his look of annoyance, Duncan rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, Sebastian. You think you’re god’s gift to women. And baby, you’re good,” she said as she stepped up to him, moving slowly, teasing out the words. Her lips were by his ear as she whispered, “But you’re no god.”

“I bet you say that to all your men.”

“Mm,” she chuckled as she stepped back. “Only those who haven’t proven me wrong.” Her hands came up to rub along his torso, starting down near his belt and smoothing higher, across his abs, his chest… “Want a chance?”

She was always like this, Duncan. A forceful and strong woman who ran her life during the day and wanted a little touch during the night. Bass remembered their brief fling in New Vegas. The sex had been dynamite and she was a hell of a good time, but come morning she’d always been back to running her war clan and treating him like nothing had happened. Just because Duncan was in her sex kitten mode at the moment, that didn’t mean he had to give in. He wrapped his hands around her wrists, holding them tight. “I wouldn’t want to mix business with pleasure,” he said.

With a small snort, Duncan pulled away. “That’s a first.”

He stood there with his hands by his side, a snide smile on his face. This was perhaps the first time in awhile he’d managed to obtain the upper hand with her; he wouldn’t give it up for anything. “Come on, Duncan. Don’t we have an attack to plan?”

She rolled her eyes—clearly she didn’t buy his excuse—but she nonetheless spread out a crude, recently drawn map of Texas and the nearby area on the table. “We’re camped here,” she said in an annoyed tone. She pointed to the clearing on the map, then dragged her finger halfway across the page. “The Patriots are camped out here, on the other side of the forest. There’s no tree cover to the west or the north of them.”

“So they’re in the corner of the forest,” Bass confirmed. He set his glass of scotch down on the table, careful not to spill any of it on the maps.

“It’s a good spot,” Duncan admitted. “They can see anything coming across the wasteland from miles away at that angle. Anything too big to fight, and they can disappear into the woods. Sneaking around the edge and coming from the north is out.”

“So we have to attack from the woods,” Bass said. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at the map. “From the east side ideally—that looks to have the most cover. Then a second unit attacking from the south once the fighting has already begun.”

Duncan gave a swift nod and stood up straight. “That’s what we originally figured. But then you had to be petulant, and all hell broke loose.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“They’re going to reposition themselves,” Duncan explained. “We’ve been tracking them for days now. They aren’t stupid, as much as we wish they were.” Her hands slid back onto her hips. Bass noticed that even when discussing tactics, she naturally cocked her hip to the side, giving her body a curvaceous appearance. “The smart money is on them doubling their patrolling forces. It’ll make it harder to penetrate their perimeter.”

“We can catch them when they’re unaware,” Bass said with a narrowing of his eyes. “Head out right before dawn. With any luck, we’ll hit them right before a shift change, when they’re at their most tired. They’ll expect us to attack when it’s light, not in the hours right before.”

“Which is good,” Duncan said with a slight drawl, “but not good enough.” Her lips twisted into a smirk, and Bass had a sinking feeling that he wasn’t going to like what came next. “See, this is where you and Charlie come in…”

  

 

Charlie couldn’t help the disgust that rose in her when Monroe and Duncan finally emerged from the tent a few hours later. She didn’t want to know why they’d taken so long; she didn’t want to know anything about the two of them together.

She expected Monroe to find her after the fact and relieve her from watch. It was their custom, after all, to only trust the kindness of strangers so much. Instead, Monroe walked towards the center of camp, where Duncan’s guest tent was. He had an extra jaunt in his step, a little bit of pep, and Charlie desperately _didn’t_ want to know why.

Duncan stood at the entrance to her tent and watched him walk away with her arms crossed over her chest. After a few moments, she turned her head, apparently scanning the tree line. Instinctively, Charlie ducked her head, but Duncan must have spotted her anyway, because before long, Duncan was slowly sauntering towards her. Charlie swallowed and stood, her crossbow gripped firmly in her hands.

A smug smile was curled across Duncan’s lips, and she stopped a few feet away. “Hey kid,” Duncan said. There was a note of authority in her voice. “Got a second?”

It was request, but Duncan had delivered it like a demand. Charlie fought the urge to roll her eyes. “Sure.”

Duncan angled her head towards camp and, after a moment of hesitation, Charlie slowly started following the older woman away from the trees. “We’re setting off for the Patriot camp in six hours. Be ready to go. You and Sebastian will lead a small party to take out those on patrol. If you think you can,” she added with a small smirk.

“I’ll get it done,” was Charlie’s tight reply. Duncan’s eyes glossed over her then, from her head down to her toes, and Charlie felt very much like she were on display all of a sudden. Uncomfortable, she crossed her arms over her chest.

“You don’t like me,” Duncan said after a moment.

“What gave you that idea?” Charlie said, dry sarcasm present in her voice. A brief pause flowed between them before Charlie couldn’t resist adding, “Bitch.”

Duncan’s upper lip curled and she put her hands on her hips. “You’ll never forgive me for that one, will you?”

“Forgiveness should be earned. Like respect.”

Duncan chuckled, but the sound was cold and not genuine. “Oh sweetie. If I haven’t earned your respect by tomorrow night, then maybe I’m not the one who needs to reevaluate my life.”

Unconsciously, Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”

“I think you’ve decided you don’t like me—“

“That’s not a leap in logic,” Charlie said. She felt her shoulders tightening, so she forced herself to uncross her arms.

What Duncan said next, however, truly surprised her. Leaning forward, Duncan argued, “I think you don’t like me because you know you’ve lost some of Monroe’s attention.”

Charlie’s eyes widened and she physically took a step back. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Duncan said. Slowly, she began to walk around Charlie, circling the younger girl as though she were a piece of meat. “He’s stopped coming to you to draw up battle plans. Hell, he’s sent _me_ to fill you in on tomorrow’s attack.”

“No one sends _you_ to do anything, least of all Monroe.”

Duncan’s laughter came from behind her, and Charlie had to force herself not to look. “True. I guess I just wanted to be the one to tell you. Air all of this ugliness between us out in the open.” Duncan stepped back into view. “After all, I’ve got to make sure you don’t kill me in a jealous rage tomorrow. Well,” she reconsidered, “try to, in any event.”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead.”

The wide smile that made its way onto Duncan’s face told Charlie that Duncan had expected her to deny that she felt any jealousy about Monroe. Annoyance welled within her—what the hell was she doing here, playing games?—so in a quick movement, Charlie turned on her heel and headed back towards her post in the tree line.

Duncan’s short chuckle told Charlie that she was being followed. “Look at you, leaving in a huff. You’d have been a great ‘90s teen.”

“I’m keeping watch.”

“Is that your way of insinuating I should back off?” Charlie said nothing, only kept walking, and after a beat, Duncan grabbed her arm and pulled her to a stop. “Look,” Duncan said, and all traces of mirth were gone from her voice. “I don’t have time for your rebellious foot-stomping jealousy—and frankly, I’m too old to deal with this petty crap—so you need to get over it.”

She knew it was what Duncan had been after all along, but Charlie found herself saying, “I’m _not_ jealous.”

“Oh please,” Duncan said, pushing Charlie’s arm away as she released it from her grasp. “You don’t think I’ve noticed the way you watch him? The way you watch _us_? You hate that he’s with me. And why? Because you know that if he’s fucking me, he’s not fucking you.”

Charlie blinked at her words, so astonished that it took Charlie a moment to regain her composure and calmly reply with, “I’m not fucking him.”

“But you want to.”

“No, no I don’t,” Charlie said with a slow shake of her head. “He’s responsible for the deaths of a lot of people, including some members of my family. How could you think—“

“It’s the way you two have that smolder-smolder stare thing going on,” Duncan said with a teasing shrug of her left shoulder. “The way you look to him for instructions and he looks to you for approval. The way you fight like lovers, both on and off the battlefield.” She leaned a little closer, and Charlie could see her eyes twinkle in the moonlight. “You’re like magnets dancing around each other, always keeping exactly the same distance apart, but one day kid, you two are gonna collide, mark my words. And when that day comes, you’re damn right I expect an apology from your perky little ass.”

Charlie could only manage to raise an eyebrow in response. “You’re wrong.”

“Am I?” Duncan replied. “Because I think it pisses you off to see him getting close to me again.”

“Believe what you will.”

There was a moment of silence as the left corner of Duncan’s mouth slid up into a smirk. “All right,” she said slowly, teasing the words out. “Maybe you don’t want to fuck him—though I still all but guarantee you eventually will, so long as neither of you brainless idiots end up getting killed. But you are still jealous because you’re not his number one partner anymore.”

She forced herself to ignore Duncan’s prediction. “I never was.”

“Doesn’t look that way to me.” Silence stretched between them, and Charlie turned her head to look out towards the forest, towards her lonely favorite tree where she would have been keeping watch if Duncan the smarmy psycho hadn’t approached her. Suddenly, Duncan chuckled. “Look how quickly you caved.”

“Arguing wasn’t doing any good,” Charlie countered.

“Fair enough,” Duncan said with a small grin. She took a step back towards camp but kept her eyes locked on Charlie. “Regardless… You’re tough. You can hang, and that’s great.” Her lips puckered together for a moment before she continued. “But Monroe will only have the best by his side. You know that. Fighting, fucking, whatever. He only takes the best.” Duncan’s eyebrows raised. “Now we know I’m the best,” she said as she turned around. She took two steps back towards the camp before she turned her head and met Charlie’s eyes again. “The question is, are you?”

Charlie found herself raising her crossbow and pointing it at the back of Duncan’s head, but the war clan leader was already heading back into camp. With a disgusted sigh, Charlie lowered her weapon and trudged back towards her tree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which so many things come to a head, will be posted on Wednesday.


	15. Counting Stars: Act 5

Sebastian Monroe had been going on five hours of sleep for the last forty-eight hours which—in retrospect—was probably not the wisest of decisions. Still, he suppressed a yawn during the early morning trek out to the other side of the woods where the Patriots were camped out. The majority of Duncan’s men were looping around to invade from the south—ideally, he and Charlie would take out all of the guards and then sit quietly while they waited for Duncan to catch up.

All of _nobody_ had faith in that outcome, however, so Duncan had sent six men along with Bass and Charlie to help defend. Looking back, Bass was glad Duncan had sent Kyle—her second in command—because Kyle knew his way around the forest. Though Bass liked to think he had a decent sense of direction, the reality was, he’d probably have gotten himself and Charlie very lost.

He glanced down at the girl beside him; she was walking tall, her eyes scanning the trees for any signs of movement. She held her loaded crossbow against her chest with her pointer finger caressing the side and in easy reach of the trigger. Still, there were dark circles under her eyes, and it took Bass a minute to realize why. “Shit,” he muttered, keeping his voice low enough that Duncan’s men couldn’t hear. Charlie didn’t turn to him, but Bass caught the subtle sight of her right ear perking up, and he continued. “Did you keep watch all night?”

She kept a straight face, but barely; Bass noticed the way her lips thinned at his words. “Someone had to.”

He cursed under his breath again. “I should have told you. Duncan’s men were keeping watch—“

“So?” Charlie said. Her eyes flickered towards the six men that marched ahead of them. “We may trust Duncan, but I don’t trust her men to have my back _or_ know what they’re doing. They’re Patriot deserters. I’d rather keep watch myself.”

It was a valid point, and Bass felt a little guilty for not thinking of it earlier. Still, he let the matter drop and instead honed in on something else she said. “So,” he tried to keep his voice light, “You trust Duncan, huh?”

She scowled but conceded, “She’s a hell of a fighter, and she came up with a good plan.”

Bass blinked. “Yeah? I figured you’d have reservations.”

“I do,” Charlie said. She glanced at Bass and found his brows furrowed in confusion. “I hate the bitch, but whether I like it or not, she’s a good asset. We need her.”

Bass felt his eyebrows raise, but he said nothing in response. He was more surprised by her admission that Duncan was useful than anything else. He wasn’t stupid; he knew the two of them didn’t get along—probably because they were both very strong, very capable women who wanted to be in charge. The fact that Charlie was willing to give Duncan any credit whatsoever was rather monumental, and it left Bass wondering what had occurred last night after he went to bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bass peered down at Charlie once more. She was back to scanning the trees in front of them for any signs of life. It was still mostly dark out, so Bass could barely see the way her hair waved and bounced against her shoulders as she walked, or the way her trigger finger stroked the side of her crossbow. There was a grace and poise to her that was simultaneously deadly and endearing, and Bass found himself glad that she was out here with him.

With a quick swallow, he forced his eyes ahead.

Light had just barely begun to shine down through the leaves of the trees—giving the world an unreal, grey glow—when Kyle signaled for everyone to stop. The group fell into a crouch, and Bass and Charlie crept forward until they were near the front of the Avengers.

“What have we got?” Bass asked.

In response, Kyle drew his finger to his lip with a slight scowl and pointed off in the distance. Charlie and Bass both turned their heads, following his hand. Buried in the tree cover, Bass could make out a sole figure leaning against a large tree a few hundred yards away. Kyle began gesturing towards his men, but Bass ignored him and looked to Charlie.

Her eyes were ready, waiting for his instructions as he ducked down behind a tree. Oblivious of what was going on around them, the two silently stared at each other, trying to come up with a plan. After a moment, Charlie pulled her knife out of her belt with a raised eyebrow.

Bass felt his lips curl into a smirk, and he cocked his head in a w _hy not?_ gesture. Moving slowly, Bass drew his machete from around his hip.

Before he knew what had happened, Kyle held Bass’s wrist in a vice-like grip—fingers digging into flesh, prying at his wrist—and then suddenly, as though it were a reflex, Charlie held her knife pressed against Kyle’s throat. “Let him go,” she whispered in a steady voice. Amusement filtered through Bass’s eyes as he watched Kyle release him and raise both of his hands in a gesture of innocence. Malice burned in Kyle’s gaze, but he didn’t say anything as he leaned away from Bass. Satisfied, Charlie sat back on her heels, though she kept her knife out and ready in case anyone else tried something.

“Spread out,” Bass whispered to the men. “Stalk the perimeter. Move in when the first one goes down.” Five of the men nodded in response. Kyle simply clenched his jaw and looked towards the ground. Bass decided to take that as agreement, and he silently began pairing the Avengers off and directly them towards their targets. Obviously, he kept Charlie by his side, because they had worked together before and they were clearly a good team. That was the only reason. Right.

The men began to creep out, moving sideways through the trees and the brush until they surrounded what Bass assumed to be the perimeter of the Patriot camp. If he looked closely, he would be able to spot each and every one of the Avengers crouching down in the brush.

Instead, he turned back to Charlie, who had snuck over to a thin tree with high branches a few yards away. She waited until their eyes locked, nodded once, and turned; he followed suit.

Keeping low, the two made their way towards the perimeter. They made it about halfway to the guard on duty before Bass ducked behind a tree and threw out his arm. Charlie mimicked his actions and looked to him with wide eyes.

He tightened his grip on his machete and moved his hands backwards and forwards in front of him, hoping she understood his message: we’ll alternate pressing forward. Her eyes were screwed up in a confused stare, though, and for a moment, Bass thought their flawless nonverbal communication skills had failed him. Just as he was starting to worry, Charlie’s face relaxed and she nodded once, and then she was silently creeping forward again.

A flare of irritation rose within Bass; he thought it was rather presumptuous of her to advance on the guard first, but before long, she had ducked behind a tree again and it was his turn.

They continued like this—slow and steady—for the next hundred yards, moving closer as the sun began to rise even higher in the sky and the grey haze started to evaporate. Their window of opportunity was closing; they had to act.

Charlie must have thought the same thing, because when Bass ducked behind a tree and it was her turn to slowly inch forward, she didn’t run for cover; she ran straight at the Patriot.

The Patriot clearly hadn’t been expecting her; instead of firing his gun, he jumped backwards into the tree and stumbled. His weapon fell to the ground. Cursing to himself, Bass followed to back Charlie up, but she didn’t need it; the Patriot’s throat was slit and his body was on the ground before Bass could reach them.

The pair leaned back against the tree—Bass sheathed his machete and pulled out his gun, just in case—and peered around. It was near-silent in the woods, and Bass could only hope that the other men were following his orders.

Charlie apparently shared his mind that day, because she whispered, “You think the others attacked?”

Suddenly, gunfire rang out from their right, followed by shouts deeper in the woods. As one, Bass and Charlie winced. “Oh yeah,” Bass muttered as he turned off the safety of his gun. “They attacked.”

“Someone was seen,” Charlie agreed, her voice hard.

Footsteps pounding against the ground sounded behind them, and Bass and Charlie held their breaths as a couple of Patriots ran past, towards the sound of gunfire. Bass and Charlie stayed very still until they were sure that the Patriots had disappeared from sight, until they were sure they were safe. “You were right,” Bass said when the Patriots had faded from view. “Can’t trust Duncan’s men. To be competent, anyway.”

Two more pairs of footsteps sounded to their left, followed by a sharp, “ _Hey!”_

Charlie grabbed Bass by the shoulder and yanked him around to take cover on the other side of their tree just as bullets began to rain down around them. He didn’t bother to thank her or acknowledge that she’d just saved his life, except by holding her gaze for a moment.

Then, they both leaned out from behind the tree and fired.

 

 

From south of the Patriot camp, Duncan Page heard the sound of gunshots ringing out and echoing through the trees. She held up her hand, halting the twenty or so armed men that marched behind her. The intelligent military decision would be to hang back until either the Patriots had taken out Monroe’s team, or Monroe’s team had taken out all of the fringe Patriots. Hanging back until the firefight ceased would allow her men to have the upper hand, even if Monroe’s people were losing.

She bit her lip. Yes, waiting would be the smart military move, but the thought that she’d potentially just sent six men, Sebastian, and his little girlfriend to their deaths had her reconsider. She’d already lost too many men to the Patriots, too many friends. She didn’t want to lose any more.

With a groan, Duncan pulled out her gun. “All right,” she said, waving her men forward. “Let’s kill some Patriots.”

 

 

There was an overturned tree a few yards in the distance, and it was with a slight desperation that Charlie and Monroe sprinted for that makeshift safe-haven. Somehow, the two of them had managed to attract the core of the Patriot fighters—so what else is new?—and they were outnumbered _badly_. Of course, none of Duncan’s Avengers were anywhere to be found—again, what else is new?—leaving Charlie and Monroe to battle it out all alone. Of course, once they made it to their overturned log and the shelterit provided the pair was faced with a new problem: they were now pinned down with no way out—the “what else is new” phrase of pseudo-surprise has really lost all meaning at this point—and they badly needed a plan.

They had one small stroke of luck: Duncan had restocked them both with enough ammo that neither Charlie nor Monroe was worried about running out of shots anytime soon. The problem was, no matter how many Patriots the pair took down, another one would soon pop up, seemingly from no where. It was never-ending.

“We need backup,” Charlie muttered as she rested her back against the overturned tree. She was careful to keep her head down as she glanced at Monroe, her eyes narrow. “This is gonna end badly.”

With a grunt in response, Monroe simply leaned up over the top of the tree and started firing wildly. Guns, they made everything more difficult. If only they were fighting with hand-to-hand combat; he knew he’d have no trouble holding the Patriots off. But with guns, any idiot could get lucky and accidentally put a bullet in his brain.

Charlie scowled, rolled over onto her knees, and began firing as well. She didn’t like that they were making a stand like this, not when there were only two of them. Duncan’s men had disappeared further into the woods towards their own battles though, and the two of them where outnumbered enough that if they tried to flee, they’d surely be followed. Charlie ducked back down behind the tree and began scanning the ground in front of her. She needed a plan. _They_ needed a plan. If they could just circle around and reconvene with Duncan’s men, they’d have an advantage—not necessarily a numbers advantage, but a skill-level advantage for sure.

A bullet whistled right past her ear, and Charlie winced, ducking lower. The fact was, Monroe and Charlie had no idea where Duncan’s men were located, and they could hardly go on a blind search while being shot at.

Beside her, Monroe ducked down behind the tree to reload his gun, and Charlie automatically rolled back into firing position. It was routine for the two of them, having each other’s backs like that. Just as Charlie heard her gun _click_ to let her know she was out of rounds, Monroe snapped back into position and took over. Swallowing, Charlie reloaded her gun. She didn’t like being pinned down like this; they needed to move. 

Monroe ducked down again, and this time, he caught her eye. In the half second between the time it took for Monroe to look at her and for Charlie to raise her gun, she could see all sorts of thoughts flash through his gaze. Determination to kick some Patriot ass. Concern that they were stuck. Desire to keep running, keep moving—and he could surely get away if he didn’t have her to worry about—but also a steadfastness that he wasn’t going to leave her, not again. Charlie also saw a fiery intensity, a look that smoldered at her skin and pulled passion out of her body and into her gun, and then she was shooting at the Patriots once more.

All of a sudden, she heard Monroe yell, “Charlie!” From her periphery, she saw him raise his gun.

Before she could turn her head and see what had spooked him, a gunshot went off and warm blood splattered against her cheek.

Shocked, she turned to find a dead Patriot draped over the edge of the log she and Monroe were hiding behind. He’d snuck around behind them, had even managed to get within a few feet of her, and Charlie had never noticed. With a tight swallow, she raised her eyes to see Duncan Page and four of her men standing within range.

Her men were firing wildly at the Patriots, but amidst all of the chaos, Duncan could still manage to give a coy smile and say, “I just saved your life, bitch,” to Charlie. She leaned forward slightly and met Charlie’s gaze head-on. “Now run.”

The blonde scowled, but a quick glance at Monroe saw him already scrambling to his feet, so Charlie followed suit. They stayed low and sprinted towards Duncan’s men, darting behind two separate trees for cover. Even though Duncan annoyed the hell out of her, the minute Charlie leaned back against her tree, she felt safe. Now they had an army, a group. Now they could kick some ass. Monroe wore a smirk on his face, and Charlie knew he was thinking the same thing. As she leaned out from behind the tree to begin firing once more, she couldn’t help the way her lips curled into a casual smile, determination burning behind her eyes.

The battle lasted a few hours; it was longer than Charlie had originally anticipated, but they’d apparently hit the mother-load of Patriots. Upon seeing the full force of Duncan’s men, the Patriots knew they were screwed, and they were running scared. Many of them couldn’t shoot straight because of their trembling hands, and the longer the fight wore on, the easier it became to pick the Patriots off one at a time.

The last major wave of Patriot fighters came just outside of the enemy camp. While Duncan and her men were preoccupied with some stragglers at the perimeter of the skirmish, Monroe and Charlie took the lead in breaching the camp. They fought side-by-side, falling into their usual dance of mimicking each other’s movements without thought. Neither noticed the way Duncan had stepped out of the fight and was watching the two of them with a casual smirk. Duncan saw the way Monroe twisted to shield Charlie, even if it made himself vulnerable. She watched as Charlie reached across Monroe’s chest as he fired at the enemy, pulled his machete out of his sheath, and cut down a rogue Patriot charging towards them. Duncan noticed the way the pair exchanged a heated, panting look as Charlie handed the machete back to him. It was so obvious. They were both fucking idiots.

By the time Monroe, Charlie, and the Avengers made it to the actual Patriot camp, barely a single enemy Patriot was left alive waiting for them. By that point, it was just a slaughter. Charlie hung back and let Duncan and her men take care of the remaining executions, and—to her surprise—Monroe stayed by her side. He watched the violence with wary eyes, and for a moment, Charlie had to admit that she’d fully expected him to partake in it all. But he didn’t. In fact, Monroe turned his back to the camp and looked out at the trees, away from the gore and fighting. His breathing was heavy and his eyes downcast—Charlie felt a weird urge to say something to him, but she wasn’t quite sure what, so she simply let the silence fall around them.

After a few moments, Duncan stepped over to them and cocked her head. Screams could be heard from behind tents, but she paid them no mind. “There will be no survivors,” Duncan said, her voice cold. “No one’s surrendering.”

A blood-curdling scream from the distance had Charlie briefly shutting her eyes in disgust. She only opened them again when she heard Monroe speak with a tight voice. “We should raid the camp for supplies.”

“You mean _my_ supplies, right?” Duncan said with a raised brow. “This is, after all, my team.”

Monroe’s lips pressed tightly together as he gave a dark smile. “It’s your team, but it was _I_ who led the charge, Duncan.”

Her lips twitched and she nodded once. “You’ll get your fair share. Just remember, I have more mouths to feed.”

“Noted.”

With that, Duncan turned to Charlie, her hands sliding onto her hips. “Not bad, kid,” Duncan proclaimed. “Looks like you’re the best after all.”

Beside her, Charlie could sense Monroe giving her a questioning look, but Charlie ignored him and nodded once. “And you saved my life. You earned my respect.” She meant it, too, and not in a begrudging way, either. Just because Charlie hated the smug little smile on Duncan’s face, that didn’t mean Duncan wasn’t an asset or someone she could trust. Duncan was a ruthless bitch, but she sure as hell knew how to fight.

Duncan’s lips curled into a smirk. “Told you I would.” With that, Duncan fell back on her heels and walked off, joining her men as they attacked and pillaged the Patriot camp. Charlie bit her lip, but she stayed at the perimeter, watching.

Charlie jumped as Monroe laid a hand on her arm. “What the hell was that about?”

But Charlie only shook her head. “We had to settle something, that’s all.”

 

 

It was the middle of the afternoon when the Avengers, Bass, and Charlie made it back to their camp, post-battle. Duncan ordered her men to pack everything up and be ready to move before nightfall; now that the Patriots had been cleared out of this area, it was time for the Avengers to move on.

Charlie—having not slept the previous night—decided to take a nap in the crook of her favorite tree. Over the course of the 24 hours that she and Monroe had been working with the Avengers, she’d grown rather attached to this camp and her tree—she was almost upset to leave it. Almost. Still, unlike the night before, Charlie felt no unease about falling asleep near the Avengers. She trusted that Monroe would have her back if anyone were to attack in broad daylight, and besides, she was too damn tired from nearly dying a few times over to really care about her safety anyway.

Monroe, on the other hand, watched as the Avengers packed up their tents and consolidated some of the supplies they’d grabbed from the Patriots. Duncan’s men would soon be off hunting the next band of bad guys, but what would he and Charlie do? Should they go with the Avengers? Head back to Austin? Strike out on their own? It would have been easier if Charlie were awake for him to discuss the matter with, but Bass knew she was beat. He couldn’t resist letting her sleep. Not that he was, uh, watching her or anything…

And speaking of being watched, Bass felt a prickling on the back of his neck and he looked up to see Duncan standing at the entrance to her tent. Upon seeing his gaze land on her, Duncan crooked one finger at him and then disappeared inside her tent. With a sigh, Bass followed after her.

“Hell of a fight, huh?” Duncan said as she stretched her arms up over her head. Her eyebrow was quirked as she addressed him.

“It ended better than the first one Charlie and I had here,” Bass acknowledged.

Duncan’s eyes flashed with amusement, and she sat down on her cot. She stroked at the canvas before looking up at him. “We’ve got to leave the furniture behind,” she said. “I sent a messenger down to Rosebud to have someone come pick it up.”

“I was wondering how you’d carried everything.”

She chuckled. “Some of the men thought it’d be nice to barter for some luxuries. We’ve been here for a few weeks, you know.”

“Back to sleeping in the dirt.”

“Like an animal,” Duncan said with a quirk of her brow. She cocked her head to the side. “You know… Now that our business is done, you and I should really… give this cot a proper farewell.”

Without meaning to, Bass smirked. “Still get horny after battles, huh?”

“Always.” Silence passed between them for a moment, and Duncan crossed one leg over the other before leaning back on her elbows. Her body looked lean and long, and she arched her back just a tad, showing a thin strip of skin on her stomach. “Well?”

He hesitated, his eyes locking on a spot just over her shoulder. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Her lips pursed together in a puckered smirk, and she said, “No? What lame excuse do you have for me this time, Sebastian?”

He struggled with his words for a moment, before finally saying, “I wouldn’t want to lead you on.”

She snorted. “Don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re capable of leading _me_ on, Monroe.”

His eyes snapped to her face, and for a brief instance, anger flashed behind them. Then he tilted his head and said, “We’re gonna part ways, Duncan. This is as far as we go together.”

At that, Duncan’s eyebrows rose and she sat back up straight. “Really?” she said, her voice a little hard. “That’s unexpected.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I called you in here to talk about teaming up. Didn’t think you’d take the kid and bow out.”

To be honest, Bass hadn’t realized leaving Duncan and her men was what he wanted to do, not until he was alone with her. She was a force of nature, someone who wouldn’t be denied, and on the one hand, he was incredibly attracted to her and interested in her confident swagger. She turned him on and made him work for her; he knew that if he stayed with Duncan, life would never be boring.

But Bass also knew there was no place for Charlie in this brigade, not in the long-run, anyway. Sure, Duncan and Charlie might be able to work together for the time being. They might communicate well and create some intricate plans to slay the Patriots, and they might even grow to like each other. But Duncan’s presence was demanding and Bass knew that, over time, she would want to work with him more and more. Suddenly, his military partnership with Charlie would fade, and he couldn’t bring himself to let that happen. He’d only ever felt such an intense chemistry with Miles before, and he’d completely screwed it all up by banging Rachel and going crazy. He didn’t want to lose his connection with Charlie now; he couldn’t lose it.

He met Duncan’s gaze. “It’s for the best.”

She snorted. “Is it?” With that, Duncan stood and stepped closer to him. There was a heat behind her eyes, but a confident smile played at her lips, and Bass was suddenly unsure just what was going on. “You could use me… my men. We’re assets.”

“We were doing fine without you.”

“Hmm.” Duncan chuckled under her breath and moved forward until she was a few inches away from him. Bass could feel the heat from her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat coming from her eyes. “Tell me this, Sebastian: you talk with Charlie about leaving? Because something tells me she wouldn’t back this play.”

Duncan was right, and Bass knew it. Charlie would ultimately make the proper military decision, which is why he couldn’t give her a choice, why he’d waited until she had fallen asleep to make up his mind. “It’s a good thing I’m in charge then.”

“Right. General Monroe.” Duncan stepped back and uncrossed her arms. Bass was a little alarmed to see signs of laughter dancing in her eyes, and he regarded her with wariness as she spoke. “Fine. Leave. I’ll even grant you a parting gift.” She nodded towards the small table and the papers that rested on it. “Take the map,” Duncan said. “We’ve got copies.”

Bass moved slowly towards the table—this had to be a trick, right? Since when did Duncan ever give something up so easily—and began to roll the map of Texas up. Still, Duncan made no moves to stop him. This was so out of character. _The fuck…_ Bass wondered as his fingers stilled in rolling up the pages. Where was the catch?

Duncan spoke from behind him. “We’ll attack every Patriot camp east of here. You take out the ones in the west. That way we won’t have any more… accidental run-ins. The map should be up to date. If you move quickly, that is.”

He finished rolling the pages up and stopped just short of putting it in his bag. He paused and turned back to her with a raised brow. “Just like that?”

She shrugged with a coy smile. “Well, you’re cutting my workload in half. Why wouldn’t I share?”

“I didn’t think that word was in your vocabulary.”

“It isn’t.” She raised her chin, her eyes burning with amusement as she looked at him. “Which is why you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

He sighed. “I knew it.”

“You’re delusional if you think leaving my war clan is a good move, and you’re a padded cell away from crazy if you think you’re leaving for any reason other than me,” Duncan said as she stepped towards him.

He blinked, his grip on the map loosening. “Excuse me?”

Her lips quirked into a grin and she laid a hand on his wrist. “I’m easy, Sebastian. You know I’ll scratch that itch and make you scream, but that’s not what you want. I’ve never known Sebastian Monroe to turn down a free fuck, but—” she shrugged, “—I’ve also never known him to be crushing on his sparring partner.”

Heat flared within Bass as he sputtered, “Hey now—“

“Oh, please,” Duncan said. She let go of his wrist and waved his protests away. “All my men think you’re screwing. The Patriots think you’re screwing. Hell, even _I_ thought you were screwing when I first met Charlie. You want her, and you’re fooling nobody by pretending you don’t. Except maybe yourself.”

Bass felt his breath hitch in his throat. He could picture Charlie’s blue eyes meeting his today on the battlefield as she handed him the machete. He could see the heat, the passion, the fire. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure what to say to Duncan. 

She noticed the silence and stepped back, a look of surprise on her face. “Unless… you _aren’t_ fooling yourself after all.”

“What do you—“

“Oh, this is great,” Duncan said, clapping her hands together once. She was openly chuckling at him, her eyes light with mirth. “Here I thought the both of you were living in denial-land, acting like you hate each other and that’s it’s totally normal to fight like lovers. But no.” She lips twisted into a haughty grin. “You want her. And you know it.”

He swallowed. “I don’t want her—“

“No,” she agreed. “It’s deeper than that, isn’t it? You don’t just want to fuck her. You like her. More than you should.” She threw back her head and laughed. “Better make your move, Monroe. The world’s ending fast, and you two will end along with it. Who knows how much time left the two of you have?”

He couldn’t bring himself to speak—whether to argue or agree, he wasn’t sure, because ever since they’d danced together at the revel, Bass had been wondering if their relationship was entirely platonic. He’d begun recalling incidents—the flair of pain he felt when Charlie had slept with Connor, the jealousy at her screwing a Texas Ranger, the pure sexual heat in her eyes when they fought together. What if Duncan was right?

She smiled at him and shook her head. “Your silence is your compliance,” she said before she turned on her heels and walked back to her cot. “Go,” she said as she sat down. “I’ll be in touch. We’ll keep our eyes and ears open, and let you know if anything outside the ordinary happens.” She smirked. “We’ve got your back if it does.”

The sudden transition back to military tactics was a little jarring for Bass, and he blinked once before saying, “Fine. Good.” Military discussions he could do; it sure beat the hell out of thinking about his _feelings_.

He held the map firmly in his hands as he turned to leave the tent, but Duncan’s voice made him pause. “Make your move, Sebastian. Because if I see you this riled up and horny for her again, I’ll laugh my ass off.”

 

 

Charlie was back in Rosebud, sitting at the bar inside the little inn they’d been staying at, when Monroe finally found her. Duncan’s men had just departed—Monroe had stayed behind to see them off and gather a few last minute supplies—and Charlie was a little annoyed that Monroe had let the Avengers leave them behind. Oh, it wasn’t that she wanted to spend more time with Duncan and her merry men—far from it—but she hated the thought that Monroe the moron had just let their biggest asset walk away. In short, that whiskey she was shooting back had become necessary to keep her from killing Monroe.

A live band was playing guitar music in the corner of the bar, and various couples were slowly dancing near the center of the room, away from the tables. It was a far cry from the raucous revel they’d attended a few short days ago, but it was similar enough that Charlie could watch the dancers with a small, wistful stare. Maybe in another life, that would have been her out there. Instead, she was stuck in this one.

Charlie was sipping on her second glass of whiskey and watching the dancers out of the corner of her eye when Monroe sat down beside her and signaled for the bartender. The pair sat in silence for a moment, though Charlie was aware of Monroe’s eyes on her, studying her. It was unnerving. The silence stretched out as the bartender passed Monroe his drink, and it continued until he had downed the whole thing in one long gulp. Gritting her teeth, Charlie finally spoke. “Letting Duncan go was a stupid strategic move.”

The bartender slid Monroe’s second drink over to him, but he didn’t touch it. “We have their map,” he argued. “We don’t need them.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t complain anymore. Instead, she took another sip from her drink and went back to watching the dancers.

They weren’t nearly as refined or lively as the dancers at the revel had been, but there was a calm, casual elegance to the way the couples swayed in time to the music. Even with damned Sebastian Monroe sitting beside her, it all made Charlie think of the world as it could have been. Maybe there would be bright lights and elegant dresses. Recorded music, instead of live. That used to be a thing, right? Was this what she’d be doing if the world hadn’t blacked out? Would she be dancing with Jason now? She would never know, and not knowing would inevitably kill her and cause her to keep wondering about the what-ifs until the day she died. Not like it would do her any good.

She was broken from her reverie as Monroe stood and offered her his hand. She blinked, uncertain. “Let’s dance.”

All of her previous thoughts about the world pre-Blackout vanished in an instant. “ _What?_ ”

There was a scathing bite in her tone that had Monroe pausing. His eyes hardened. “Oh, calm down, Charlotte,” he said as he dropped his hand. “I just thought we might have some fun.”

“And you think dancing with me is fun?” Charlie deadpanned, unable to keep her annoyance from her voice.

He sighed. “This might be the last quiet moment we have for awhile,” he explained. “We’ve got Duncan’s map. We’re about to go on a Patriot raiding spree, and if they catch wind of us, we’ll be on the run until we return to Austin. I just…” he shrugged, and it was only then that Charlie realized he couldn’t meet her eyes. He was looking just barely over her shoulder, and she found it unnerving. That was an avoidance tactic often employed by one Miles Matheson, but she’d never seen the brash and steadfast Monroe use it before. “I want to savor this. The calm. Just be a person for awhile, like back during the revel.” So she wasn’t the only one impacted by the dance. Memories of the past and what could have been haunted him too; Charlie wasn’t sure if she found that comforting or terrifying. “But never fucking mind,” Monroe muttered as he sat back down again.

Though he watched the dancers, Charlie could tell that he wasn’t actually seeing them; his eyes were clouded and his hand absent-mindedly rubbed at the scruff on his chin. For a moment, Charlie could see him as the man who had been at the revel, the man she couldn’t hate or pick out from the crowd. In those moments, he’d been normal, not a man burdened by his past actions.

He wanted to be that man again—if only for a moment—and Charlie found herself wanting to see that man once more too. Perhaps their late night discussion had affected her more than she’d thought—knowing about his family, his suicide attempt, it changed the way she saw him, even when she desperately tried to keep her hatred for him alive. Maybe seeing Monroe as a normal man, like he had been on the night of the revel, would make it easier to travel with him. Maybe.

With slight hesitation, she stood up. The movement startled him, and Monroe’s eyes jumped to her own. Heat burned between them, heat that they normally only shared on the battlefield. And though neither or them had anything to say, somehow—just like he always did—Monroe knew what she was trying to convey.

Once more, he held out his hand. This time, she took it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which we find out what Miles and co have been up to, will be posted on Wednesday.
> 
> This brings a close to the "Counting Stars" episode/arc/whatever you want to call it. It also marks the, er, 25% way through this story... I mean, I did warn that it would be long...
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! Drop me a comment if you did!


	16. Wonderwall: Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! I hope you guys enjoy!

It took Miles, Rachel, Tom, Connor, and Aaron nearly five weeks to get to the Tower from Bradbury, Idaho. This was partly because of a week-long nasty rain storm that all but halted their progress, and partly because of their harrowing journey through a couple of mountain ranges. Believe it or not, traveling by horse and carriage is _not_ the recommended way to cross the Tetons. Aaron was incredibly grateful that it wasn’t winter; Tom Neville would probably be only too happy to reenact the Donner Party, with Aaron as the first course. 

So after weeks of laborious travel, when the Tower finally came into the view of their wagon, Aaron nearly wept with joy. Their journey was at an end. They’d made it to the Tower in one piece. 

Aaron was, unfortunately, the only person within their group to feel at ease. “Great,” Miles said as he pulled on the reins and slowed the horses. “Now all we need to do is figure out how to get inside. Any bright ideas?” he threw over his shoulder towards Rachel and Aaron.

That was a good point. The Tower would hardly do them any good if they couldn’t get inside. Across from him, frown lines appeared on Rachel’s face as she examined the Tower. “Tower” was too kind of a description for it; in all actuality, it was more of a bunker or a pit buried deep beneath the surface of the Colorado hillside. And, unfortunately, it was completely closed shut, rust seeping out among the the metal screws and locks holding the door in place. They probably couldn’t even open the bunker’s main door from the inside with electricity—it might have been permanently rusted shut.

As though she had read Aaron’s mind, Rachel spoke. “The doors were electronic,” Rachel admitted. “The only way to open them is from the inside. But now…”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Because that’s practical.”

“There has to be an auxiliary entrance,” Neville said. He climbed down out of the wagon with a slight huff, and then continued. “Surely you people were smart enough to design a second entrance, just in case one of your men got locked out by accident.” He paused and locked eyes with Rachel. “Then again, you people did _cause_ the Blackout and kill millions of innocents in the first place—“

“Can it, Tom,” Miles said. He tossed his pack hard into Neville’s chest, making the man wince. “Monroe spent hours scanning the mountains, looking for a second entrance. If there was one, he’d have found it.”

“Unless he didn’t know what to look for,” Rachel said. Though she spoke in a calm voice, her eyes were cloudy and unseeing as they glossed over the area. Even though they hadn’t been back to the Tower in over a year and a half, there were still remnants from their last stay there scattered around. Some stray rope from tents, the occasional discarded torn shirt, rusted rods… Aaron swallowed and tried to forget the hellish battle they’d endured. All of those people, all of those deaths… In his mind’s eye, he saw Rachel walking towards Monroe’s tent with a grenade behind her back, Nora being killed, Randall committing suicide… It wasn’t worth remembering, but he couldn’t forget.

“You know how to get in?” he asked, forcing himself into the present conversation.

She frowned. “Not exactly. There’s a second entrance into an airshaft. It’s a hatch that’s supposed to lead down into a sort of waiting room, with doors that can be opened from the outside…” she hesitated before adding, “if the mechanism hasn’t been destroyed, of course.”

Connor jumped out of the wagon. His foot skidded in the dirt, and he had to reach out for Aaron’s arm to regain his balance. As quickly as Connor gripped the older man, he let go. “I’m game. Let’s go find the hidden airshaft thing. Or whatever.”

But Rachel was already shaking her head, her blue eyes absentmindedly scanning the horizon. “It’s not that easy.”

“Of course not,” Neville drawled.

“The hatch is buried,” Rachel said. Her eyes sought out Miles’s, and it was almost like she were apologizing for the difficulty, like she was speaking only to him. “It was initially supposed to be fifteen feet deep, but with erosion over the last twenty years, it might be a little more shallow. Ten feet, maybe. Unless the nearby mountains eroded _onto_ the hatch, of course,” she conceded with a thoughtful look, “in which case it may now be twenty to twenty-five feet deep. I can’t be sure without examining the wind strength and direction—“

“Perfect,” Miles replied, cutting Rachel off before she could venture too deep into the world of science. He brought his hand up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “Great. Okay, so let me see if I’ve got this. We have to somehow find the hatch, dig for approximately ten to twenty-five feet, climb down an airshaft, open the doors—if we even _can_ —“

“And destroy the mechanism that allows them to be opened from the outside,” Rachel added. “So we aren’t followed and killed in our sleep.”

“And all of this before the Nano show up?”

Rachel hesitated, unconsciously pulling at her shirt. “If we can get into the airshaft, the Nano won’t be able to follow. The Tower is impervious to them… Unless they’re in human form. I think, anyway. I can’t be completely sure.”

Miles briefly closed his eyes and sighed. “Swell.”

“I have an idea as to where the airshaft hatch is,” Rachel said with a determined nod. “The hatch should be near the base of the mountain—“ she pointed off, just barely into the distance. “Parallel with the location of the blast doors.” She bit her lip and nodded once. “Approximately fifteen paces south and twelve east.”

Connor blinked. “That’s pretty exact, for an idea.”

“Only if the mountain hasn’t eroded significantly in the last twenty years,” Rachel shot back. She turned to Miles. “It’s not absolute, but I think it’s our best chance of getting inside quickly.”

His eyes were trained on the ground, as though he didn’t even want to look at the Tower or the mountains behind them, but Miles still nodded once. “Okay,” he said, looking up at the horses. He still wouldn’t meet anyone’s gaze. “Here’s the plan. Connor, grab the shovel from the back of the wagon. Neville, Rachel, find the sturdiest pieces of wood you can and peel them off the wagon. We’ll dig in shifts with two people standing guarding at a time. Move the wagon closer to the dig site in case we need to run. Got it?”

No one said a word, but everyone moved to follow his orders. They hadn’t seen any sign of the Nanites for five straight weeks, but that didn’t mean that the Nano was nowhere to be found. Everyone was quite anxious to get inside where it was safe. As the team went about following orders, Miles approached Aaron with a wary look on his face. “You good to stand guard with me for now?”

Aaron was caught off-guard by this question, and his mouth hung open slightly as he answered. “Sure.”

Miles studied his face for a moment, examining the sunburn on Aaron’s cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. After a moment, Miles sighed. “You doing okay?”

Aaron blinked. “Uh—“

“Since… You know. Priscilla,” he elaborated. Though he was trying to be kind, his face was screwed up into an awkward half-sneer; Miles clearly didn’t do this sort of thing very often, and it showed. He sucked at this hippie-dippy feeling crap.

And, to be honest, Aaron wished he wouldn’t give his “I’m sorry” speech _now_. The last thing he needed was a pep talk from Miles Matheson. “I’ve been better.”

“I’m sorry about her,” Miles said. He looked down at the toe of his boot and scuffed it against the earth. “I wish it could have been different.”

Aaron’s heart started to pound in his chest and he was suddenly seeing everything all over again—Nora bleeding out, and the bombs falling on Philly and Atlanta, and Monroe taking aim at Charlie, and Rachel bleeding out on the floor of her tent, and Priscilla rising from the dead—and he couldn’t think anymore, couldn’t breath—

He stepped away from Miles and moved to help with the wagon. “I’m fine,” he muttered under his breath.

 

It had been almost three weeks since Bass and Charlie’s adventures in Rosebud with Duncan Page. During that time, the pair of them had managed to take out two more Patriot camps—albeit smaller ones, but camps nonetheless. From the constant traveling and fighting, both were tired, dirty, and pent-up with tension. Just as Bass had predicted back in Rosebud, they’d barely had a moment to breathe since they’d left town. Thus, when they happened upon a small stream about a two day walk from Austin, they eagerly settled in for some relaxation.

To be fair, Bass was pretty certain he was the only one to feel the tension. Ever since his talk with Duncan, he’d been unable to shake Charlie from his mind—it didn’t help that she was essentially the only person he spoke to—and he found himself oscillating between going out of his way to avoid her and jumping at the chance to be near her.

Charlie wasn’t an idiot; she knew he was behaving like an erratic fool, so Bass had to do his best to limit his confusion and at least pretend to be normal. It was easier said than done.

When they stopped beside the stream, Bass offered to keep first watch so Charlie could get cleaned in peace. She capitulated without thought and waited with crossed arms until he turned around so she could change.

Gripping his gun in his arms, Bass forced his eyes to scan the horizon, looking for trouble. If he didn’t, he’d start to think about the girl behind him, the girl who was quickly becoming devoid of clothing—

The girl who happened to be his best friend’s niece.

Because at the end of the day, that’s what stopped Bass from thinking about her in any way other than as a sparring partner, right? That Charlie was Miles’s niece, Rachel’s daughter, Danny’s sister. That she was so young, that she hated him, that she flinched if he called himself family. Slowly, he shook his head and forced his eyes to harden on the horizon. He was just horny. That was it. He hadn’t been laid in months and he was jonesing for some touch.

Still, as he heard the water splash behind him and Charlie sigh with relief, Bass couldn’t resist peering over his shoulder. She was kneeling waist-deep in the water and her back was to him—Bass wasn’t sure whether he should thank god or curse his his luck—as she slowly rubbed at the skin on her arms. Bass swallowed as he took in the contour of her waist, the way her ribs poked out through her skin—he made a mental note to find more food for her—the way her golden locks fell across her back.

She swept her hair over her shoulder and began to paw at her upper back. That’s when Bass noticed the thin black cord that hung around her neck. He frowned and twisted his neck even further, trying to get a better view of whatever it was. In fact, if he squinted, it almost looked like…

“Is that one of those pendants?” Bass asked, a note of awe in his voice.

“Pervert,” Charlie said in reply, but she was slow to raise her arms to cover her body. “Turn around. I’m getting out.”

Bass did as he was told, wincing a little at the sound of her leaving the water. _Don’t think about it_. “Why do you have that? I thought the pendants don’t work anymore.”

“They don’t,” Charlie said.

He waited for more, but as usual, taciturn Charlie had nothing else to say. “Then what’s the point?”

Wet feet padded on the dirt, and after a moment, Charlie stepped into view. Her jeans were still laid out in the sun, leaving her in only a tank top and a pair of faded red panties. Bass tried not to notice the way her toned legs looked bare. God, he needed to get laid. “It reminds me of Danny,” she said simply.

He frowned. “Danny?”

“And Maggie and Nora. And my dad.” She shrugged. “It’s what I’m fighting for. What they all fought for.”

“Which is?”

She looked him straight in the eyes with a hardness in her face as she said, “Family.”

The pendant was her reminder of the dead that she’d loved and lost, the dead that she considered a part of her family, and Bass felt his eyes soften. She was so defensive of the notion, even the word family. It hurt that she felt like she had to be. “That hasn’t changed. For either of us. It’s why I fight too.”

Charlie looked away and shrugged. Though she didn’t say it, Bass could tell just by looking at her what she was thinking: _You’re not a part of my family._

 

It took Rachel three shifts of digging before she finally heard the _clunk_ of the shovel colliding with the metal door of the hatch. By this point, the sun sat low on the horizon and beads of sweat cleaned away the dirt stains on her face and neck. The group had been digging for nearly the entire day, alternating every hour to save energy and fight fatigue. Miles, Rachel could tell, had just about lost hope that they were even in the right place—he’d begun pacing back and forth, kicking at the dirt with his feet as though trying to uncover something—when a sharp _clang_ sounded. At the sound of the shovel colliding with the hatch, everyone froze. Connor and Tom—who stood outside of the pit standing guard—looked down with interest. Instinctively, Rachel dropped the shovel and collapsed to her knees.

“It’s here,” she muttered, manically smoothing over the dirt with her hands. “It’s here. It’s here—“

She heard more than saw Miles drop into the hole beside her, and she felt him wrap his hands around her shoulders and gently pull. “Why don’t you stand guard for now,” he whispered, his cool breath tickling her ear. “Aaron and I can finish up.”

But she yanked her shoulder away from him and continued to paw at the earth. “I’ve got it, Miles. I found it.” She knew she looked crazy, but she didn’t care; she’d found it—the entrance, her salvation. If she could just get into the Tower, she could figure out how to destroy the Nano. She could save them all, and then maybe start washing the blood off of her hands. She had to get in; she _would_ get in.

“Rachel—“

At the sound of her name, Rachel’s head snapped back to look at Miles. “Don’t stand there,” she said with a glare. “Help me.”

His eyes were narrow and he regarded her with a look of concern, but Rachel couldn’t be bothered with Miles and his feelings right now; she would worry about his feelings later. All that mattered was opening the hatch.

With a sigh, Miles cocked his head to the side and signaled for Aaron to help as well. Together, the three of them went to work uncovering the hatch door.

 

“It’s about time,” Connor muttered half an hour later as he and Miles gripped the handle. The sun had disappeared altogether, and the cold mountain air had him shivering. Together, he and Miles grunted and pulled—the hinge was rusted and it took all of their strength—until they heard a _pop_ and the door opened. Connor laid the door in the dirt and sat back, huffing slightly. Rachel was already climbing into the hole, and Miles was regarding her with worry; personally, Connor didn’t care what crazy Rachel was up to. He just needed a minute to rest.

“It’s functioning!” he heard Rachel call from inside the hole. “We can get in! Hurry. Come on!”

“This feels like the beginning of a bad horror movie,” Aaron muttered as he removed his glasses.

Miles, on the other hand, had already started to lower himself into the hole after Rachel. “The beginning? I think we’re a few _years_ into this flick, Aaron.”

“Good point.”

“Let’s go, Tom,” Miles called out as Aaron began to climb down into the hole.

Connor glanced out of the pit, searching for the figure of Tom Neville standing guard. The older man stood at the edge of their giant hole—rifle grasped firmly in his hands—but instead of beginning his descent, Neville’s eyes were glued to something in the distance, something Connor couldn’t see. It didn’t take him long to figure out what it was. “Hey,” Connor said softly. Neville didn’t move, so he tried again. “Tom,” he said, his voice firmer. This time, Neville flinched, but his eyes stayed locked on the horizon. “It’s not Jason,” Connor said with strength in his voice. “It’s not real.”

From inside the hatch, Miles yelled out, “What the hell are you talking about?”

But Neville got the message. With jerky movements, he broke his gaze and began to climb down. Connor waited until Neville was standing next to him before he gently reached out and pried the rifle from his grip. “It’s not real,” Connor repeated, though he kept his voice soft so Miles and the others couldn’t hear. “And we’re going to stop it.”

Neville’s face was pale, but he still managed to nod once at Connor’s words.

Miles, on the other hand, was clearly feeling impatient. He yelled up, “Get a fucking move-on, you two!” From inside the hatch, Connor and Neville could hear the sound of metal grinding against metal.

Connor was surprised when Neville clamped his hand down on his shoulder—surprised enough to look back at the man with wide eyes. Somehow, Connor understood the silent message of thanks that Neville was bestowing upon him. He could see the haunted hollowness of Neville’s eyes, but also the color that was returning to his cheeks and the looser set of his mouth. Without saying anything, Connor nodded in response and climbed through the hatch.

The room—if you could call it that—was small, made entirely of wood, and bare, save for an arrangement of gears that connected to a metal door. Rachel had managed to use these gears to open the door, and was currently in the process of smashing them to pieces. Her blonde hair had fallen around her face in stringy waves, and streaks of red had appeared on her cheeks and in her eyes. Connor wasn’t sure Rachel was even looking at the gears anymore—rather, it was like she was looking through them.

Miles picked up a few of the loose gears and slid them into his pocket. “In case they can repair it,” he explained as Neville dropped into the room from above. “Now come on.” He laid a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. Instantly, her wild smashing ceased. “Let’s move.”

He pulled her into the room and gestured for Connor and Neville to follow. They did, but not before following Miles’s lead and grabbing a few more gears and metal bits, just in case. Once everyone had passed through the metal door, Rachel and Miles worked together to seal them inside the Tower. The barricaded the door with some furniture and other odds and ends nearby, but the physical barricade probably wouldn’t have made a difference. After a moment, Rachel found a keypad connected to the door. She entered a long, twelve-digit code; with a tight _hiss_ , the door sealed itself behind them.

Connor gulped; they were in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which "shit happens" would have been a really appropriate title, will be posted on Wednesday.


	17. Wonderwall: Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Here's another long chapter for you; I hope you enjoy!
> 
> Just out of curiosity, anyone else doing Camp NaNo in April?

Rachel’s secret door that allowed them access to the Tower started with a small room blocked by a mechanical door, which Miles and Rachel were quick to destroy so the Nanites could not follow after. On the other side of the small room—Connor’s first look into the Tower itself—was a long metal catwalk that led to an elevator. Connor swallowed, gripped the railing tight, and leaned over just a smidgen to peer over the edge and down towards the bottom. Below, he could see a dozen more catwalks criss-crossing, all of which appeared to led to the elevator and the elevator shaft. One misstep… one stumble and down he’d fall, to his death.

His fingers were trembling, but he tried not to show it; he’d never been in a building like this before. The tallest building he’d ever set foot in was four stories. After the Blackout, anything higher than that had crumbled and fallen into disuse once the elevators had stopped working, because people didn’t want to climb ten or twenty stories every day. The Tower… this underground cavern felt colossal, and the height made him dizzy.

“We should be safe now,” Rachel said as she glanced back at the door. “The Nanites can’t get in here.”

“The possessed humans can,” Neville said in a sharp voice.

Without hesitation, Rachel pointed towards the corner of the ceiling. There, Corner could see a little black box with a shining screen and a blinking red light. It had been years since he’d seen one, so it took him a moment to recognize it for what it was: a camera. “If we get to the control room, we’ll see them coming.”

“Good enough for me,” Miles muttered. Without pause, he began walking towards the elevator. “Get your asses moving,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Would it kill you to say ‘please?’” Aaron replied, but he nevertheless followed suit.

Unease rose within Connor, and he fell back as the rest of the group walked down the catwalk. He watched as Miles pressed a button of an arrow pointing down, and he heard a whirling, mechanical noise. His heart started to beat quickly and he could feel his palms begin to sweat.

Only Neville seemed to notice that anything was wrong; he paused and turned back to the boy. “Come on,” he said, his voice stiff.

“Is it…” Connor felt foolish for asking, but he had to know. “Is it safe?”

Neville blinked, clearly surprised, then barred his teeth in a dark grin as he cocked his head and said, “I guess we’re going to find out.”

Connor scowled, unamused by Neville’s answer, but he began moving towards the elevator anyway. He found Neville’s cheek irritating, a little insulting, and like the kind of answer a son would get from a father. For some reason, he found that comforting.

That is, until the _ding_ from the arriving elevator caused him to jerk in surprise.

 

_Charlie walked with Miles, Jason, Connor, and Monroe through the streets of Austin, Texas and towards the center of town, hoping to stop the Patriot-led assassination on President Carver. She, Jason, and Connor had just come from the boarding house where the Willoughby kids were staying, and Miles and Monroe had just met with Frank. Now, they had a President to save. Charlie scanned the streets, keeping her eyes open for any kids from Willoughby—she didn’t want to kill them, but she wanted a war with California even less._

_Monroe was in the back of the group, and even though Charlie knew her full attention should be on looking for the kids, she couldn’t help be disgusted by the grin on Monroe’s face. After a minute, she had to ask, “Why are you so happy?”_

_“Messing with Frank always makes me happy, kid.”_

_She scowled, annoyed that he’d called her ‘kid’ again, but said, “I thought Frank was an ally.”_

_“He is. Doesn’t mean Miles and I can’t screw with him,” Monroe said. He glanced down at her with a raised brow. “Does it bother you?”_

_She rolled her eyes. “That you’re a dick to your so-called friends? Hardy unexpected.”_

_Bass’s lips tightened into a thin line. “That you got left behind with your boyfriends while Miles and I went on the offensive,” he clarified in a low growl._

_To his surprise, however, Charlie’s voice became sugary sweet when she replied with, “Not at all. My_ boyfriends _treat me just fine. And two is always better than one, anyhow.” Her smile was cold, distant, and Monroe looked like he was about to snap back at her when he caught sight of the crowd of spectators in the distance._

_The president stood on a platform overlooking probably half of Austin. Hundreds of people crowded the makeshift stage. The citizens were cheering, milling about, and creating a thick throng of people who served to make it more difficult to identify the brain-washed kids from Willoughby. Monroe sighed. “Well,” he said, “so much for catching a break.”_

 

“We’re running low on ammo,” Charlie said. It was early the next morning and the pair was still within a few hundred yards of the stream they’d stopped at the night before. It was an easy landmark to follow back down towards Austin, so they’d decided to stay by it for as long as possible. “We should turn back.”

“We might be able to take on one more group of Patriots,” Monroe argued. He placed his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows. “They’re nearby.”

“And if we get ambushed?”

But he waved the thought away with a shake of his head. “Have you forgotten who we are? We’ll kick their asses to kingdom come.”

“Humble.”

He flashed her a smile. “Humility gets you no where, Charlie. Kicking ass is what it’s all about.”

That was when the first bullet ricocheted off the bank of the stream.

Without thinking twice, Bass dove for Charlie, knocking her to the ground. She knew the drill, though, and used the momentum to roll them both down the embankment and into the stream. The good news? The embankment gave them momentary cover. The bad news? Save for the two small handguns Bass and Charlie kept tucked into the back of their pants, they had just been separated from their ammo, their swords, and the rest of their weapons.

Charlie came out of the water sputtering and flipped her hair out of her eyes. “What was that you said about an ambush?”

Bass grabbed his gun and scowled. “Shut up.”

They could see movement at the top of the embankment as men in Patriot uniforms ran towards them, so Bass and Charlie were quick to scramble for cover. There were a couple of trees and a rather large rock near the edge of the stream; it wasn’t perfect, but Bass thought it would do in a pinch.

Charlie clearly had the same idea, because they both moved towards the makeshift cover at the same time, throwing themselves behind the trees just in time for the Patriots to start shooting again. “We need more ammo,” Bass muttered. He stayed crouched down and still, waiting for a lull so he could shoot back.

He heard Charlie scoff and his eyes darted to hers. “Now you listen? Really?”

“Shut _up_ ,” he repeated.

She complied, but only so she could lean around the edge of the tree and begin firing back at the Patriots. Bass’s eyebrows were furrowed together, but he stayed where he was; they each only had one magazine of ammo and they had to limit their shots until they could make it back up the embankment and to their weapons. Charlie ducked down behind the tree, and without hesitation, Bass began firing in her place. He could make out four, no five Patriot soldiers standing on the embankment above them.

Though his eyes were focusing on finding Patriot targets, he was aware of the way Charlie’s grip tightened on the handle of her gun, of how her eyes were scanning the water in front of her, looking for something to help them. After a moment, she reached out and grabbed Bass’s leg.

He dropped back into cover, expecting her to start shooting, but Charlie only shook her head. “I have a bad plan.”

“Does it involve doing nothing and getting us killed?”  
  
She paused, and in the silence Bass could hear the sound of Patriot footsteps slide down the embankment and head towards them. “Kind of.” He opened his mouth to reply, but Charlie said, “Trust me.” Her eyes reflected the glint of the stream water and looked as though they were pleading with him, begging him, and oh hell of course he would trust her even though she clearly had no clue what she was doing—

She took her knife out of its holster on her hip, and he knew her plan.

With a hurried nod, Bass grabbed his own knife and twisted around until they were back to back. They had one shot at this, one shot to get the enemy and not die…

The footsteps sounded loud now, so it was simultaneously that Bass and Charlie jumped up and slit the throats of the two men nearest them. Shouts from a few feet away could be heard as two of the Patriots crumpled—the other three were still out of arm’s reach—and Charlie didn’t hesitate in pulling out her gun and shooting one of the men straight through the forehead.

Bass dropped his knife and drew his gun—two on two; those were great odds—and he began firing as Charlie ducked back behind the tree. He heard her ragged breath and felt splinters of wood fly off of the tree and hit his skin, but he kept firing until he hit one square in the chest. One to go.

He dropped back down—it was Charlie’s turn to kick some ass—and she leaned out from behind the tree, raised her gun, and fired, only to hear the ominous _click_ of an empty gun instead. Bass heard the Patriot’s gun go off before he realize Charlie’s had not. Exposed and unprotected, Charlie had become a vulnerable target. Bass noticed her eyes widen as she dove for the tree again—she was fast, she could make it—until suddenly her whole body jerked and she was thrown to the ground like a doll.

He didn’t know if she was dead, he didn’t know if she was alive; all Bass knew was this Patriot motherfucker was going to die.

With a shrill yell that was unbecoming of him, Bass leapt out from behind the tree and ran towards the Patriot son of a bitch, firing wildly at him. He saw the Patriot’s eyes go wide in terror as he dove for cover. Bass’s gun _click_ ed but he just dropped it and kept running until he was close enough to jerk the Patriot to his feet. He pried the Patriot’s rifle away from him, tossed it aside, and wrapped his hand around the man’s throat. Drawing back his right fist, Bass punched him in the face once, twice, three times before he released the Patriot’s body and gave the man’s knees a solid kick.

The Patriot collapsed face-down in the dirt, blood dribbling from his mouth. Bass was almost nonchalant as he pulled out his knife and stepped towards him. “P-Please,” the Patriot gasped. “Please—“

“Hear that?” Bass said as he knelt down beside the man. He grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back until the Patriot was forced to look him in the eyes. Fear shone within them—something General Monroe had grown used to seeing. “Death just said your name.” In a fluid motion, Bass drew his knife across the man’s throat, leaving him to cough and sputter up blood in a painful death.

Bass dropped the man’s head and stood up straight, and in that moment everything came rushing back and his body went numb. His breath caught in his throat, and the knife trembled in his hand. “Charlie?” he called out, but his throat was dry and his voice didn’t carry. The trees hid her from view, and he wasn’t sure whether or not that was a good thing. Adrenaline spiked through his body—she couldn’t be dead, not Charlie, _his_ Charlie (because how could he quibble over the morality of thinking she was his at a time like this)—and Bass took a tentative step forward. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Charlie?”

It was faint, but after a moment an audible moan could be heard from beyond the trees.

In a flash, Bass was sprinting back to her side, running so fast that he skidded in the dirt beside her to slow his momentum. A small pool of blood—too small to have nicked an artery, thank god—lay underneath her, she gripped her left shoulder, and her eyes were squeezed closed. If she was dying, he wouldn’t know what to do. Miles would kill him, and Bass would never be able to replace her as a partner, never. She had to be all right, she just had to. It was with trepidation that Bass reached out and gently touched her forehead. “Charlie?” he whispered.

Whether it was at his touch or her name, Charlie’s eyes opened and Bass found himself looking into her blue eyes—angry blue eyes, as a matter of fact. “I told you we needed to head back.”

His laugh was breathy as he exhaled. Gently, he wiped the hair away from her face. “Yeah, you did.”

She frowned and swatted his hand away. “Stop that. Don’t talk to me like I’m dying.” She moved to rest her hand back over her shoulder, but Bass caught it with a grimace. She’d been shot through the left shoulder—it looked like it missed bone, thank god—and she was still bleeding. Bass dropped her hand and sat back on his heels, taking off his jacket, then his shirt. At his movements, Charlie blinked once. “Whoa,” she said, her eyes widening. “Did you hit your head?”  
  
He rolled his eyes and pressed his shirt against her shoulder. “I need to tie this in place,” Bass said. He glanced back at the stream, his brow furrowing. They were close to Austin—close to Gene and other doctors—but could a two day journey make a big difference? If she got infected, would the trip to Austin kill her? Should he try to wash and cauterize the wound here? He looked back down at her, made sure she pressed the shirt in place, and then put his jacket back on. “I’m going to help you sit up,” he said. “I need to see if the bullet went all the way through—“

“It did,” Charlie said through grit teeth. “Trust me.”

It was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, there were no bullet fragments inside her that could cause later damage; it was a clean shot and would heal well. On the other hand, now she had two open wounds vulnerable to infection. His heart started to thud painfully against his chest and he swallowed. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

He stood, but that apparently wasn’t what Charlie wanted to see. Her jaw clenched, “Where are you going?”

“To retrieve my sword.”

“Why?” Her voice was tight, though, and Bass knew she’d already figured it out: he had to cauterize the wound. He said nothing, simply looked into her eyes with a mournful expression. “Over my dead body,” she snapped.

“That might be the alternative, Charlotte.”

“Take me home,” she protested. “Grandpa can take care of me.”

“If it gets infected—“

“Then he’ll deal with it. Not you.” Her voice held strength in it, but Bass could recognize a smidgeon of fear behind her blue eyes, fear of more pain, of being out of control, of him.

He wanted to comfort her, to take away the pain and the fear, but her safety came first and he shook his head. “This has to be done. Miles’ll kill me if anything happens to you.”

“Right. I forgot. You’re only protecting me for Miles’s sake,” she said in a voice laced with bitterness.

“I’m not.” The words were out before Bass could even comprehend them. He held his breath as he watched her eyebrows knit together and her lips part ever so slightly in confusion. He was so good at reading her—at having a thousand conversations in a single glance—but for some reason she was a mystery to him now. Maybe it was her pain or his terror at seeing her hurt like this, but he couldn’t tell if in this moment she hated him. And the longer it lasted—the longer he looked into her steady blue eyes—the less sure of everything he became…

A short whinny from above dragged both of their eyes up to the embankment where a horse—most likely left-over from the now-dead Patriots—paced. Once more, Bass met Charlie’s gaze, but this time, he could tell they were thinking the same thing.

“A horse gets us to Austin by nightfall,” Charlie said.

“And I’m not good at playing doctor,” he replied. With a pause, he couldn’t resist smirking. “Well, not a _real_ doctor, anyway.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and clutched at Bass’s shirt, holding it tight to her shoulder. “Just get the fucking horse.”

 

Rachel, Miles, Connor, Neville, and Aaron had spent the night together in the control room. Miles liked it as a defensive position—they could monitor the security systems for any signs the Nano had breached the Tower—and he thought everyone could use a full night’s sleep. After riding and digging for an entire day, no one had put up much of a fight. Aaron, Connor, and Neville were more than happy to curl up on the hard concrete floor of the control room and sleep.

He’d had to essentially force Rachel to relax, though. She was eager to get started—anxious go through the Tower for clues as to how to stop the Nanites. Even after Miles had finally got her to sleep, she was restless. Rachel tossed and turned throughout the entire night, and she awoke before dawn. Miles stirred just in time to see Rachel exit the control room.

He jolted to his feet, grabbed his gun, and hurried after her. She was an entire hallway ahead of him, and he had to sprint to reach her. “Rachel,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Where are you…“ She didn’t slow, though, or even look him in the eyes. Instead, Rachel kept her gaze straight ahead and continued to march through the Tower. Miles didn’t want to spook her, so he was gentle when he laid his hand on her shoulder. “Rachel—“

“I’m looking for something.” 

Well, at least he finally got a response out of her, though Miles was a little perturbed that Rachel wouldn’t slow her pace. “Okay, something… Good… What something?” But she was back to being silent, to that steely determination that haunted her face, and all Miles could do was sigh and follow after her.

She led him through the maze of corridors and stairs, tunnels and doorways. If it weren’t for the look of confidant resolution on her face, Miles would assume that she was lost. But she wasn’t lost—of course she wasn’t lost, she was too brilliant for that—as was made apparent when Rachel stopped at the end of a long hallway by the elevator. Miles blinked and looked around. They were on level 11, and blood stains left over from the battle a year and a half ago coated the walls and the floor. Rachel pushed on a heavy metal door, forcing it open. “Rachel,” he said slowly as she stepped inside. “Where are we?”

“The VP bunker,” she said without looking back.

 

Connor had slept as far away from the computers and the monitors in the room as he possibly could. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the technology per se, but Connor was unfamiliar with ninety percent of the things around him, and he’d always found that it was better to stay away from the unknown. Instead, Connor had slept against the back wall near a dark red bloodstain. Upon entering the room, Neville had informed him that it was leftover from some guy named Randall. Whatever. Didn’t matter now.

Miles and Rachel had disappeared deeper into the Tower by the time Connor woke up. Neville, on the other hand, was already sitting at one of the computers watching the security feed. With a short groan, Connor stood. Sleeping on concrete wasn’t good on his back. “Where are Miles and Rachel?” he asked, but he already knew the answer.

Without taking his eyes off one of the screens, Neville pointed at a dark, bloody hallway and a closed metal door beyond it. “They disappeared in there about twenty minutes ago”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” Neville’s voice was stiff and a little rough. Connor glanced over his shoulder at the still-sleeping Aaron with unease. “I’m keeping an eye on them.”

Connor swallowed. “Should we trust them?”

At that, Neville looked up at him. Tom’s dark eyes cut through him almost without emotion. “For now.”

It was a vague, enigmatic answer, the likes of which he was used to hearing from Neville, or Miles, or Rachel. With a heavy sigh, Connor sank into a chair next to Neville’s. What he wouldn’t give for some simplicity, some straightforward answers, some trust. There had to be more to life—to the world—than this. Running around, fighting bad guys, always looking over your shoulder… It was exhilarating, but was it any way to live?  
  
“You think they can stop the Nano?” Connor asked in a low voice. “Miles, Rachel, and Aaron? Can they win?”

“Oh,” Tom growled before he gave an almost angry chuckle. “If anyone can put an end to the damn sci-fi crap, it’s the Matheson superhero family, you mark my words.”

Connor hesitated before he replied because he agreed with Tom’s assessment. He thought Miles and the others would be successful—loathe as he was to admit that Miles could do anything right—and that it was only a matter of time before the Nanites were destroyed. But that left him with one nagging thought… “Do they actually… need us?”  
Tom’s voice was sharp. “I beg your pardon.”

“I’m just saying,” Connor argued as he held up both of his hands in the universal no-harm-meant gesture. “Aaron and Rachel are the brains. Miles is the leader… Why are we here? Why don’t we hit the road and settle down in some backwoods town that needs us in charge? We don’t have to fight the fucking Matheson war.”

Neville looked at him again, and this time Connor knew there was anger in his eyes. “We’re here for Jason.”

“Fine,” Connor conceded. “ _You’re_ here for Jason. Who I barely knew. So why the hell am I here?”

Neville’s eyes drifted back to the security screen again, but Connor could still see the way they softened—the crease left his brow, the skin around the corners of Tom’s eyes became smooth—as the older man said, “You’re here to help me. The sooner we avenge my son, the sooner you and I can start over.” Tom’s eyes flicked back to Connor’s face for just a fraction of a second before they returned to staring at the screen. “Unless you want to strike out alone. Without me.”

It was hardly a declaration of fatherly love or unending support, but Connor knew exactly what Neville wasn’t saying, what he meant. A feeling of warmth spread through Connor’s chest, and he found himself leaning back in his seat and nodding once. “I think I’m good here, thanks.” It was enough for now, and they both lapsed back into silence.

 

Rachel tore through the desk within the VP bunker, pulling out old files and flipping through them at a rapid pace. Miles, on the other hand, simply stood off to the side with his arms crossed. He’d long since given up trying to talk to Rachel about what she was doing. As far as Miles was concerned, she was on her own. 

After a few minutes of leaning unhappily against the wall, however, Miles’s curiosity got the better of him. He straightened up and slowly made his way around the edge of the room. His eyebrows shot up as he came to the gun closet—one of the large explosion guns that had literally blown up the enemy was locked behind bullet-proof glass. After a pause, Miles shut the doors of that cabinet; he didn’t exactly want to relive that weapon again.

Rachel knocked some papers to the ground and began digging through the bottom drawer of the desk, muttering to herself. “Where is it… where is it…” If only she would tell him _what_ she was looking for, Miles could help her look. But, oh no. That would be too easy.

With a roll of his eyes, Miles walked over to the wall of president pictures. The wall contained portraits of democrats and republicans alike—was there really a time when a two-party system had been the biggest politic problem?—and every former president was smiling. There was a hint of naiveté to their faces; they had no idea what kind of hell was coming, what the Blackout would do to the world. 

Sitting on a shelf below the wall of presidents sat a smashed and torn photograph of George W Bush. With hesitant fingers, Miles brushed over Bush’s picture, and his lips curled into a slight smirk. “Someone hates Bush,” Miles said; Bush’s photo was the only one damaged among the wall of photos. “Well,” he quickly amended, “everyone hates bush. Man, I miss Brazilian waxes.” From behind him, Miles heard Rachel’s sharp intake of breath. Immediately, Miles assumed her reaction was due to his snarky, and the noise made him miss Bass; Monroe would have laughed at his joke.

As it turns out, Rachel’s gasp wasn’t in regards to his dirty sense of humor, because in an instant, Rachel was at his side. She yanked portrait after portrait off of the wall and threw them to the ground. Bill Clinton, George Bush senior, Jimmy Carter… Glass shattered and bounced off of the floor.

Miles winced and lunged for her arm. “Rachel—“

She dropped a portrait of Ronald Reagan. The glass broke, the picture fell out of the frame, and a small folded up piece of paper became visible. Instantly, Rachel’s body relaxed as she bent down to pick it up. _Oh_ , Miles thought. _That’s what she’s after_.

Somehow, finding the piece of paper threw Rachel back into her eternally calm state. Gone was the frenzy, the insanity that had plagued her since the moment they’d found the Tower. Her movements became smooth as she bent down and pulled the page from the pile of broken glass. Unfolding it, she studied the page for a moment before she handed it to Miles. “This is where we need to go,” she said. “Level five.”

The paper contained a hand-drawn map of level five, just as Rachel had said. It was detailed—the map listed exits, electronic monitors and devices, and the purpose of various rooms on that floor. There was also a small hand-drawn star in the corner of the map, inside of a room designated the “laboratory.”

“What’s at level five?” Miles asked.

Her lips were pressed tightly together as she answered, but she met his gaze evenly. “Another pendant,” she said. “I think finding it is the first step towards stopping the Nano.”

 

Charlie and Monroe were halfway back to Austin when they had to pause for a break. She wasn’t used to sharing a horse with anyone, much less Sebastian Monroe, and the close quarters made her anxious. When they finally stopped a few hours into their journey for a bathroom break, Charlie was more than happy to put some distance between the two of them.

Bass, on the other hand, wasn’t willing to let her go just yet. She’d been cradled in his arms for the last few hours—she had to be; with her injured shoulder, she couldn’t properly hold on—and she needed help getting down from the horse. After Bass had climbed down, he wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted as she swung her leg around.

“I got it,” she grumbled, but Bass noticed the way she gingerly clutched at his shirt, which was still tied around her wound.

He let go of her waist but stayed within arm’s reach anyway. “Let me take a look.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Charlotte—“

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice taking on a hard edge.

Bass knew she wouldn’t appreciate being manhandled, but Charlie could sometimes be too stubborn for her own good. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her to him—normally, she would have swung at him with her free arm, but the bullet wound made her unable to move her left arm well. Charlie shrieked and tried to jerk away, but Bass easily over-powered her and pulled away his shirt. She stilled as the cold fall air hit her skin, her lips pressing into a thin line. Gingerly, Bass brushed his hand against her blood-stained shoulder, being careful to avoid the actual wound itself. The bleeding had more or less stopped on both sides of her shoulder, though the wound appeared to still be tacky. He hesitated before pulling his canteen out of his pack. “We should rinse your shoulder out.”

“Sounds pleasant.”

His lips curled into a slight smirk as he screwed the lid off of his canteen. “It’ll sting like a son of a bitch, but it needs to be done.” He positioned the canteen over her shoulder, then paused. If he were a warmer, more nurturing man—like Gene—then maybe he would know what to say here to preemptively relieve the pain. As it was, all Bass could mutter was, “You can squeeze my hand or something if it hurts.”

Her voice dropped into a growl as she said, “Just do it.”

The water was slightly warm from baking in his canteen all day, and from the moment the water hit her shoulder, Bass knew Charlie was in pain. Her lips pressed together into a thin line and her face turned an ashen white, but she didn’t say a word. Fire burned behind her eyes and she met his gaze head-on, until he lifted his canteen and gently patted her shoulder dry with his shirt. “You should probably sit down.”

“Bite me,” was her response, but she nevertheless moved away from the horse and sat on the ground. Her hand held the shirt in place over her wound—they would need to tie it up again before they left—and her legs stretched out in front of her.

Charlie’s back was to him, and there was something about the contour of her body—her strong muscles, her slim waist—that caught Monroe’s breath. His mind jolted back to a few minutes before, when her back had been pressed against his chest, her body nestled between his arms as he held the reins and directed the horse. Her hair had smelt like dirt, sweat, and blood, but also like wild grass, and he found it intoxicating.

It had been easy to brush aside his interest in her before. He could lie to himself and say he wanted to protect her because she was Miles’s niece, or that he wanted to dance with her at a revel because she had never been. He could pretend that Duncan was crazy when she said there was chemistry between them; he could imagine that the way his blood burned in his veins when she was naked and bathing or pressed against him in a fight was because he was sexually frustrated. But he’d watched her get shot and fall to the ground—not knowing if she was alive, not knowing if he’d have to bury her—and all of his allusions were shattered. The panic, the fear that rose within him at the sight of her still body, it wasn’t a protective, familial feeling. It wasn’t the way he’d feel if a fellow soldier died.

No, it was a feeling of deep despair, the kind he’d only ever felt when Shelley had died in his arms. And it wasn’t despair out of obligation to Miles or even due to lust. It was for her, all for her. Somehow, Charlie had come to mean more to him. Somehow, she’d become a second Miles—a sexy, _female_ second Miles with a ferocious femininity that turned him on—and he realized there was a lot he’d be willing to do for her.

Oh, hell. This was going to end badly.

“You gonna stand there all day?”

Her voice broke him from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile. He turned, dug around in his backpack for a moment, and then pulled out a small bit of bread, leftover from their last stop in a town. “Here,” he said as he sat down beside her. “Eat.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’m good.”

Bass rolled his eyes. “You’ve been shot, you need the calories. Eat.” He could tell from the slight look of confusion on her face that Charlie had no idea what calories were, but she took the bread anyway. There was an implicit level of trust between them; she knew that, at the very least, he wanted her alive.

Still, as Charlie began to nibble at the bread, the look of confusion on her face only deepened. After she swallowed a small bite, she looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “You’re not usually this nice.”

He snorted. “Thanks. That’s great.”

Her next words, however, provided more context for her thoughts. “You think I’m dying, don’t you?”

Bass’s eyebrows rose. “Not at all,” he said. He forced his eyes to meet hers and hoped that she could read his sincerity within them. “This is what you’re supposed to do when your partner gets hurt,” he said. “It’s why you have a partner. Got to take care of each other.”

“It’s unexpected, coming from you.”

He sighed. She would always expect him to be the monster he’d been when they’d first met. Charlie would never see him as normal; she’d never see him as human. “It shouldn’t be,” he muttered. His eyes drifted down to stare in his lap. He didn’t know what he could say to change her mind about him. In all honesty, there was probably nothing he could say. If he were smart, he’d go back to denying his attraction to Charlie, because he knew she would never see him in that light. At best, she could tolerate his existence. At worst, she’d resume hating him and try to kill him again. And maybe this time, he’d let her. 

He met her gaze, remorse clouding his eyes. “I’ve always kept you safe. I’m sorry I couldn’t today.”

She blinked in astonishment, and her lips parted. “It’s not your fault,” she said at last. Her words came out stilted and uncomfortable, but there was no malice behind them.

He shook his head once, unable to accept what she said. “You got shot.”

“Yeah. But I’m not dead yet,” Charlie said in a dry tone. She waited until his eyes met hers once again before she continued. “I don’t blame you. Not for this, anyway.”

Bass’s lips twisted into a pale imitation of a smile—Charlie blamed him for so many things; did it really matter that she forgave him for accidentally getting her shot?—but that smile faded as he watched her eyes flutter. Color vanished from her cheeks, and her right hand shot out to grab his arm. Bass reached out to steady her, his eyebrows knitting together into a look of concern. “Jesus,” he said as he tightened his grip. “You okay?”

“Dizzy,” she muttered, her eyes drifting closed.

Panic shot through Bass again, but he tried to keep it out of his voice as he said. “We should get a move on. I don’t care if we kill the horse, I’ll get you back to Austin by nightfall.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Gene tends to Charlie's shoulder, will be posted on Wednesday.


	18. Wonderwall: Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Wednesday! Hope you guys had a good week; enjoy!

A shout from outside his tent had Gene Porter’s eyes snap open. He’d climbed into bed not more than twenty minutes ago, when the commotion from elsewhere in camp forced him awake. Dread pumped through him as he swung his legs over the side of his cot and stood. Was it a Patriot attack? A raid gone bad?

Neither, as it turned out. He’d barely made it to the entrance of his tent when he saw Sebastian Monroe running towards him—not too shocking; Monroe had always been a little dramatic—with a confused Frank Blanchard trailing after him. What stilled Gene’s heart for a moment, however, was the sight of Charlie curled up in Monroe’s arms, holding onto his neck. When his heart finally started again, Gene ran out of his tent. “Oh, god,” he said. His eyes went straight to his granddaughter’s shoulder and the bloody shirt wrapped around it. “Charlie—“

To his surprise, however, Charlie rolled her eyes and scowled. “I’m fine. He’s being ridiculous.”

Monroe took umbrage at this and scoffed. “You could barely stand when I got you off the horse, you were so dizzy—“

“Doesn’t mean you have to run through camp shouting like a dick.”

“Oh, it’s _so_ nice to have you both back,” Frank muttered under his breath. The older man was panting; he normally didn’t move quite so fast. “We’ve missed your constant squabbling.” His eyes met Gene’s and he nodded once. “We’re taking her to the medic tent. Can you look her over?”

“Of course,” Gene replied. He struggled to keep the slight bite of concern out of his voice; he had to maintain a professional demeanor. Charlie was his granddaughter, but she was also a patient; he couldn’t afford to panic. “She’s in good hands.”

They were approaching the proper tent— _good thing, too_ , Gene thought, _Charlie looks ready to shoot Monroe_ —and Frank glanced over his shoulder. “Good. Set her down, Bass, then come with me. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Monroe said nothing as he entered the tent, but Gene noticed the man’s shoulders stiffen. In fact, as Monroe laid Charlie down on the empty cot, Gene was surprised to see how gentle he was. Monroe took the time to wrap his hand around the back of her neck and slowly lower her down, so that she wouldn’t collapse onto her bad shoulder. Gene frowned; it was a little out of character, coming for an ex-military dictator.

Frank stood at the entrance to the tent with his arms crossed over his chest. “Come on,” he prompted. “Let’s go.”

“No.”

Gene and Charlie both looked up at Monroe with raised brows, surprised by his curt response. Frank, on the other hand, snorted. “That’s an order, Bass.”

A twisted smile came over Monroe’s features, and he said, “Too bad I don’t take orders from you.”

Frank stepped deeper into the tent. “You listen here—“

“No,” Monroe snapped. He whirled on the older man, his hands coming up to wrap around the collar of his shirt, and before Gene knew what was happening, Frank had been pulled up against Monroe’s chest. Monroe’s eyes were unfocused, his teeth barred in a snarl as he said, “You listen. That girl is my responsibility. I told Miles I’d watch out for her, keep her safe. She got shot on _my_ watch. I’m not leaving until I know she’s okay.” Monroe let go of Frank’s shirt and pushed him away; the old man stumbled and barely stayed on his feet. “Now get the fuck out of my face. I’ll speak with you when I’m done here.”

For a second, Gene forgot all about Charlie and her injury. All he could do was blink and stare as Frank nodded once and fled from the tent. Monroe’s eyes were barely focused—he looked crazy, just like his old dictator self—and his hands were both curled into fists. Gene swallowed and took a step back.

Charlie, on the other hand, looked bored with the whole exchange. “Did you have to jump into crazy mode?”

Monroe scowled, but Gene was startled to see his shoulders relax and his hands uncurl at her words. “Crazy conveys a sense of urgency.”

“So could saying ‘please,’” Charlie said with a roll of her eyes. “Especially since you invoked the name of the great Miles Matheson. Let everyone know you’re only worried for his sake.” Her words were biting, but Gene could see the paleness in her cheeks and hear the shallowness of her breath.

Monroe’s face turned to stone. “Of course. For his sake.”

There was something in the way Monroe spoke that made Gene want to pause—to examine the entire conversation further, to pick apart the undertones of what was said—but Charlie’s labored breathing reminded him of why they were there. In a fluid motion, Gene pulled the shirt away from her shoulder and peered down at the wound. He could see torn muscle and flesh, but no bullet fragments. A quick peer at her back told him that the bullet had gone straight through—small blessings—and that the wound was still bleeding slightly.

He had no doubt that her shoulder would heal—Charlie was young, strong, and healthy. However, he had great concern over the possibility of an infection. In this day and age, with the type of work that Monroe and Charlie did, it was almost a certainty that Charlie would come into contact with blood, dirt, and bacteria while her shoulder was healing. The best to way insure her safety was to clean and sterilize the wounds, then stitch them both up.

When Gene finally looked up from the bullet holes, he saw Monroe staring intently into his granddaughter’s eyes, his lips parted ever so slightly. A quick glance at Charlie found that—though her brow was furrowed—she looked back at him with just as much heat.

Gene frowned and cleared his throat; both pairs of eyes snapped to his. “I’m going to have to clean this, Charlie. It’s gonna sting.”

Her nod was curt as she replied, “I figured.”

Gene stood straight and moved to the cabinet in which they kept the medical supplies. He glanced at Monroe. “You can leave,” he said softly. “She’ll be fine, I promise.”

But to his surprise—or maybe he wasn’t so surprised after all—Monroe crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes into a glare. “Just get a move on, Doc.”

Gene didn’t like the way Monroe refused to leave, nor did he like how close Monroe was standing to his granddaughter when he returned to the cot with antiseptic. Charlie was sitting up straight, and she didn’t seem to notice Monroe’s proximity—or maybe she’d simply gotten used to having him around by this point. Either way, watching him hover like that made Gene very uncomfortable. 

Kneeling on the ground by her feet, Gene unscrewed the lid on the bottle of the antiseptic. “There will be pain, Charlie,” he repeated as he looked his granddaughter in the eyes. Monroe moved around from behind her cot to stand next to her, and though Charlie didn’t directly look at him, she tilted her chin towards his body in a way that told Gene she knew Monroe was there. He tried to ignore the mad man and focus. “It’ll hurt. But I have to scrub out the wounds in case an infection is already forming. You can’t jerk away.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“She’s not a kid, Doc,” Monroe said with a slight frown on his face. “She can take the damn pain.”

Gene didn’t miss the way Charlie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at his words, nor did he miss the way her eyes flickered to Monroe’s face for a split second. Gene noticed how Monroe met her gaze evenly, how he stood within arm’s reach of her, how his eyes seemed softer than they had in years…

_Oh, hell_ , he thought with a small shake of his head. He swallowed—he couldn’t worry about this now—and addressed his granddaughter. “Stay still. If we have to tie you down…”

“It’s not as much fun in this type of setting,” Monroe said with a knowing smirk. “Trust me.”

Gene staggered back on his heels at Monroe’s words, but Charlie simply rolled her eyes once more. “I’m ready,” she said, addressing Gene.

Unfolding one of his recently cleaned cloths, Gene poured some antiseptic on it, gripped Charlie’s good shoulder, and pressed the cloth to her wound. Instantly, her whole body tensed up and she let out a hiss of pain. She wobbled, fighting with herself as her body instinctively wanted to pull away. Charlie’s eyes snapped closed and her jaw clenched—maybe they’d need to tie her down after all—but then Monroe’s hand found it’s way around her waist to hold her in place, and Charlie’s good arm shot out to grab his bicep in a white-knuckled grip, and she stopped struggling.

Gene noticed all of this taking place—the way Monroe leaned in close to her, the way she held onto his arm for dear life, the way his arm was a stronghold against her back but his hand gently stroked her waist—but he couldn’t think about it. Charlie needed him to focus on the wound, on her pain, so he set about cleaning her shoulder.

It didn’t take him more than ten minutes to clean out both sides of her wound, but by the time Gene set the now bloodied cloth down, Charlie’s face was as white as snow and her head was hanging forward. Monroe’s hand on her lower back seemed to be the only thing holding her up. His brows were knit together, and his second hand had found its way to Charlie’s knee. Monroe’s thumb was idly tracing circles over Charlie’s jeans, but the girl didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her breathing was shallow.

Gene returned to his granddaughter with a needle and thread. “I have to sew it up now, Charlie,” he said, keeping his voice soft and smooth. “It’s going to hurt too. But you’re doing good, you’re almost done.” He didn’t expect any type of acknowledgement from her—she was weak from blood loss and pale from the pain—but Charlie’s eyes drifted open anyway. She didn’t look to Gene, however. Instead, Charlie’s sleepy eyes instantly found Monroe’s. Gone was the hardness, the wariness that Charlie usually held within her face. Instead, she looked at him with a small bit of vulnerability, maybe even appreciation—Gene’s fingers began to tremble. _Aw, hell._

“M’kay,” Charlie muttered as her eyes drifted shut again. 

He threaded the needle, lined it up with the edge of the wound, and penetrated her flesh. Charlie tensed as the needle dragged through her skin, but it was the pull of the thread that caused her eyes to flutter and her weak body to finally pass out.

Monroe lunged for her shoulders and held her upright, pressed against his chest. A look of panic was on his face—wide eyes, creased forehead—as he looked to Gene. “Is that supposed to happen?”

Now that Charlie was unconscious, Gene didn’t feel the need to hide his distaste from Monroe. He hated the way Monroe had his hands wrapped around Charlie, the way he was too panicked and concerned over her safety. Nevertheless, it couldn’t be denied that Gene could use Monroe’s help. Gene scowled, his voice hard as he said, “She’ll be fine. Now hold her up while I finish the stitches.”  


Miles Matheson awkwardly fingered the trigger of his gun from a stool in the corner of the room as he watched Rachel rummage through the laboratory. She had been down here for hours, pulling apart every nook and cranny in the hopes of finding the pendant. For the first hour or so, Miles had tried to help her. He’d flipped through files, opened drawers, and even dug around in the air conditioning unit. But as the time continued to pass and Rachel’s search grew more frantic, Miles had opted to retreat to the corner of the room and simply watch.

Rachel’s hair hung loose in frizzy waves around her face, and her blue eyes were wide and manic. She’d been combing through the same stacks of papers and books for hours now, looking for some clue as to where the pendant might be. Miles, on the other hand, had already come to a conclusion as to where the pendant was: someone else must have already found it.

It wasn’t that hard to figure out, really. The Tower was over fifteen years old and it used to be a full-time dwelling for over a hundred people. Of _course_ someone had already found the pendant. But Rachel either hadn’t come to this conclusion yet, or she didn’t _want_ to believe the pendant was gone, because she continued to tear up the lab.

Every now and again, Miles would sigh and try to break her out of her funk. “Rachel…” But she acted like she hadn’t heard him and would continue to dig through the papers with trembling fingers.

Miles let this go on for hours, until he was sure that the sun must have set outside and his bladder was close to bursting. Then, as Rachel walked by him to start digging through the desk in the corner for the upteenth time, Miles stood and grabbed her arm. “This has to stop.”

“No,” she said, yanking her arm away. “We have to find the pendant—“

“It’s gone, Rachel.”

“No it’s not.” Her voice held a note of panic in it. “It can’t be.”

“We would have found it by now—“

“Stop!” she said with a violent shake of her head. Her frizzy curls bounced around her face and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut. In that moment, Rachel almost looked like a small child. “We’ll find it. We have to.”

He reached for her shoulder, hoping that maybe a moment of comfort would break her out of this weird, manic state that she’d been in ever since they’d arrived at the Tower. “Rachel—“

“No!” She pushed him with one of her hands, and though she wasn’t the strongest woman in the world, Miles still staggered backwards and into the stool. It fell over with a sharp _crash_. With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Miles turned around to pick it up, only to see something taped to the underside of the stool. He saw it before Rachel did, and it was only as Miles was pulling the pendant off of the underside of the stool that Rachel sprang to life. “Told you,” Rachel said. Her hands closed over his, and Miles was relieved to see that her eyes weren’t wide and unfocused anymore; they were back to being dangerously soft and calculating. It was like a switch had been flipped; all insanity and fear was gone from her face. “You were sitting on it the whole time.”

Miles swallowed—it unnerved him that Rachel could turn on and off her panic so quickly. Yet he still couldn’t help the way her light touch made his heart stutter in his chest. He cocked his head to the side and looked down at the ground. “Apparently.”

Placing the pendant around her neck, Rachel slipped her hand through Miles’s. “The pendants repel the Nano,” she said as she gave his hand a light tug. This was the first time Rachel had even attempted to explain her actions to him. “There’s some type of technology within them that interferes with the Nanites.”

He was wary, but he tried to follow along. “Okay. So?”

“So if Aaron and I can dissect this pendant and duplicate its properties, then maybe we can figure out how to shut down the Nano.”

 

Bass felt weary when he could finally lower the unconscious Charlie down to her cot. Her shoulder was red, the skin swollen, but both of her wounds were sewn shut. Time would tell if the bullet wound had been infected, but Gene seemed to be optimistic, and Bass hoped that was a good sign.

It was the middle of October and the fall air had grown chilly, so Bass grabbed a wool blanket from the back of a nearby chair and draped it across her body. His fingers hesitated, before he gently brushed them against her cheek. Her skin was dust-caked, but underneath he could feel just how soft she was against the pad of his thumb…

He jerked his hand back, and his eyes involuntarily shot to Gene’s out of guilt. The old man was staring at him with his arms crossed over his chest. “You done?” he asked, a bite in his words.

Bass swallowed—he could feel the waves of hatred rolling off of Gene, and oh, he had a bad feeling about this—and he forced a casual, haughty tone. “Done stopping your patient from freezing to death? Yeah, thanks.” With heavy footsteps, Bass pushed past Gene and out of the tent; now that his Charlie was safe, he needed to find Frank, apologize, and exchange information.

Except Gene apparently didn’t like this unspoken plan, because just outside of the entrance to Charlie’s tent, Gene grabbed his elbow. “What exactly is going on?” 

Bass liked to think he was good at hiding his feelings, but hell, Duncan had been able to read him so easily—and now Gene had apparently noticed his newfound affection for Charlie—maybe he sucked at keeping a blank face after all. Still, he tried to deny. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gene released Bass’s elbow and crossed his arms over his chest. “You seem awfully concerned about my granddaughter.”

“She got shot.”

A disapproving look fell across the old man’s features—the lines in his face seemed harsher, and his mouth was set into a firm line—as he shook his head. “And while I’d happily kill you for that later, you seem a little… too concerned for a flesh wound.”

He was caught, and he knew it, but Bass’s instinct was still to deny any wrong-doings and deflect the attention onto something else. Bass forced himself to keep eye contact with Gene. “Well it was her first time getting shot,” he said in a dry voice. “I thought I’d walk her through the initiation process.”

Gene’s threshold for subtly had reached its limit, and it was with anger that he snapped, “If you’ve so much as _touched_ her—“

But at the fire in Gene’s tone and the absurdity of the accusation, Bass couldn’t help but laugh. “You really think she’d let me? I killed her father, her brother… You think she’d ever be able to get over that?” He gave a single, stilted shake of his head and tried to ignore the pain in his chest. The words he spoke were designed to get Gene off of his back, but that didn’t make them any less true. “You don’t have to worry, Doc. Charlotte’s not the forgiving type.”

He turned and headed towards the center of camp, ready to escape the conversation and begin groveling to Frank. He had to force himself to keep walking when Gene called out, “That doesn’t mean you aren’t _trying_.”

 

_“We have to go. Where’s the Neville kid?”_

_It was the way Charlie wouldn’t meet his eyes that told Bass something was off. The way he could look down at her face—a face stained with blood—and she didn’t react to what anyone around her said. Her eyes were cold, dead, unfeeling. Bass’s breath caught in the back of his throat; he knew where the Neville kid was. Without being told, he knew exactly what had happened._

_The sound of the Texas Rangers mobilizing in the distance had Miles ordering them all to get a move on, and Bass let him take the lead. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he was more concerned about making sure Charlie got to the wagon safely; if she was anything like her mother, she might very well collapse in the middle of the street, too distraught to move. That would be bad for a number of reasons, the least of which being that then he and Miles would have to mount a rescue mission to save her ass._

_Bass took up the rear of the group, right behind Charlie, as they fled towards the wagon. When Miles and Connor raced out of the hiding spot to ready the horses, Bass pulled Charlie down into a squat behind the barn. “You’ve got to snap out of it, kid,” he said in a low voice. “It had to be done.”_

_She didn’t speak or make any movement to show that she’d heard what he’d said. Instead, Charlie stayed in a low kneel staring down at her blood-stained hands. He couldn’t tell if she were entranced by the Neville kid’s blood, or not really seeing it at all. Maybe both. With a scowl, Bass grabbed onto her wrists. “Hey,” he said, a little sharper this time. “It’s not your fault. You hear me?” She still wouldn’t look at him, but her breath stilled, so Bass knew she was paying attention. “Those Patriot fuckers are to blame, understand?” She said nothing, but she didn’t let go of his hand either. “It was your life or his. Always choose yours.” He pulled his hand away. “You can’t feel bad about saving your own life. Not ever.”_

_From the corner of his eye, Bass noticed Charlie finally look up, though she kept her eyes low on the horizon. She opened her mouth, but in that moment, Connor called out to the two of them. Her eyes dropped to the ground again, and Bass grabbed her shoulder, hauled her to her feet, and sprinted towards the wagon._

 

Tom, Aaron, and Connor were hanging out impatiently in the control room when Miles and Rachel returned finally returned from their foray deep into the Tower. Miles couldn’t blame the unlikely trio for the sour looks they sported; he and Rachel had disappeared for almost the entire day without a word to anyone. He’d probably have been pissed, too. Hell, he was surprised Neville hadn’t already staged a full-blown coup. 

“We found food,” Connor said in a cautious tone, trying to dispel the palpable tension. Aaron wouldn’t even look their way, and Neville wore his trademark sneer. “There’s a kitchen down the hall. Maybe a three minute walk.”

“Good work,” Miles said with an abbreviated nod. “Thanks.”

“And what did you find while we were doing all of this _good work_?” Tom asked with ice in his voice.

Miles rolled his eyes, but it was Rachel who answered. “This,” she said as she held up the pendant. Connor looked confused at the gesture, but Tom scoffed, less than impressed. However, it was Aaron whom Rachel turned to. She held the pendant out to him. “I need your help, Aaron,” she said in a soft tone.

Aaron, Miles was quick to notice, didn’t look as though he’d moved from his spot on the floor since they’d arrived in the control room the previous night. He sat with his back against the wall near the pool of dried blood that used to be flowing through Randall’s brain. Though Aaron finally met Rachel’s gaze, his eyes seemed vacant. “Aaron,” Miles prompted in a cautious tone. _Great,_ he thought to himself, _Now I have two basket-cases to watch out for._

But to Miles’s utter surprise, Rachel sat down on the ground beside him and stretched her feet out across the Randall stain. Miles felt bile rise in his throat—how could Rachel possibly _touch_ that bloodstain?—but she just smiled and laid her hand on his thigh. “You’re going to help me, right?” she said in a voice so sweet and smooth it could sell ice to an eskimo. 

Aaron swallowed, but he didn’t say anything. Was it Priscilla’s death or the Tower itself that made Aaron withdraw in on himself? Miles couldn’t be sure. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if there was a good answer. Rachel squeezed his thigh and pulled back, dropping the pendant in his lap. “I seem to recall you having skill with this type of tech.”

“Lot of good that’s done me,” Aaron muttered to himself.

His sass managed to coerce a small chuckle from Rachel. “We have access to a computer, Aaron. You know what that means?”

“We can play Tetris?”

She shook her head, and it was this movement that caused Aaron’s eyes to focus in on her face, to really hear what she was saying. “It means we can use the pendants. We can extract the code that repels the Nano and duplicate it. Amplify it. We can destroy the Nano.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, but once they did, Aaron’s eyes lit up. “We can stop them once and for all.”

From behind him, Miles heard Neville snort. “How is that news? Isn’t that what we came all this way to do?”

“Shut up, dick,” Miles said.

But Aaron, thankfully, appeared to have been permanently pulled from his funk. He scrambled to his feet, the pendant clutched tightly in his hands, and headed towards the main computer. “It’ll take time to download the coding from the pendant into the mainframe of the computer,” he explained. “The software in here is old, and the code to repel the Nanites is going to be long. It might take a few days until we have it all.”

Rachel sat down next to him at the computer and shrugged. “I guess we’d better get started.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Charlie regains her strength, will be posted on Wednesday.


	19. Wonderwall: Act 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stoked for you guys to read this chapter! There's some fun moments in it, and it sets up for the final chapter of this "arc," which has some pretty important stuff in it...
> 
> Enjoy! Drop me a comment down below if you can! Thanks!

When Charlie woke, sunlight was streaming through the half-opened entrance to her tent, and her left arm was bound to her chest in a sling. She blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust to the sudden light, and groaned as memories of the previous day came back to her. She had been shot, jostled, and stitched. She remembered her grandfather pouring disinfectant over her shoulder and the pain of a needle and thread dragging through her skin. Her whole body felt sore and stiff, but also weak, as though she were on the verge of falling asleep once more. _If this is what getting shot is like,_ Charlie mused silently, _I’d best avoid it._ She felt like she’d been run over by a horse; recovery would be a bitch.

After a moment, Charlie also began to remember Monroe: him calling out to her, holding her as they rode back to Austin, carrying her into the medical tent, supporting her body through the pain… Her nose scrunched up and her eyes narrowed into a squint. Monroe wasn’t a caring, helpful guy. Surely she was just remembering everything wrong, distorted under the haze of pain.

The flap to her tent ruffled and a dark figure appeared at the entrance. He was backlit by sunlight, so Charlie couldn’t quite make out his face, but he carried a canteen, a satchel, and a small bowl. He was tall—imposing—and had short curly hair. In fact, if Charlie blinked just right, he almost looked like… “Monroe?”

He stepped out of the light, the tent flap falling shut behind him. His lips were pursed into a coy smirk and his eyebrows were raised. “Well, well, Charlotte,” he said in an irritatingly calm tone. “Look at that. You wake up in the hospital and the first name out your mouth is mine.”

Charlie’s brows furrowed and she slammed her good arm down onto the cot. “Only because you had the misfortune of walking in before anyone more savory.” The blood started to pound in her ears and she struggled to sit up, unaccustomed to placing her full weight on her right arm only.

Monroe, noticing her struggle, set the items he carried down on a low table. “Here, let me—“

“I’ve got it,” Charlie snapped in response. It took her an extra moment of wiggling and twisting her hips—it was hard to look for leverage to help her fully sit up when her shoulder ached and her whole body felt like lead—but eventually she was sitting vertical with a smug smile on her face. “Did you want something?”

His jaw was tight, but Monroe only rolled his eyes. Casually, he grabbed the canteen and tossed it into her lap. Though normally Charlie would have caught it with ease, she wasn’t used to her limitations and visibly flinched. Monroe noticed—of course he did, the ass, he noticed everything—but he saved her the embarrassment of mentioning it. “Drink,” he said. “You need your strength.”

She blinked, a little surprised by this. “Is that the only reason you’re here?” Her grandfather or one of the Ranger nurses could have easily brought her nourishment.

Without breaking her gaze, Monroe grabbed the small bowl he’d carried into her tent off of the table. “Brought you some porridge too.” He held it out to her, and after a brief pause, she reached for the bowl.

Charlie was a little clumsy as she grabbed the bowl from him with her right arm. She glanced down into the bowl—warm steam rose up from within, along with the smell of cinnamon—and she frowned. She could hardly hold the bowl and the spoon in her one good hand. “Tricky.”

She heard him snort and she lifted her eyes to meet his. “I could always feed it to you. It’d be simply… darling,” he drawled.

“I’ll manage.” She struggled with the bowl for a moment—she tried holding it in her left hand, laying it flat on the bed, holding it in the same hand as her spoon—before she managed to get the bowl to awkwardly balance on her knee. Tentatively, she began to eat.

All the while, Monroe looked on with an unreadable expression—tired eyes, parted lips—before he cleared his throat and spoke. “Sorry about the sling,” he said. “Doc didn’t want you jostling the stitches while they set.”

“I figured.”

Silence passed between them, and for a moment, Charlie simply ate, engrossed in her porridge—or, at least, she pretended to be engrossed in her porridge. In all actuality, she was still put off by the fact that Monroe was leaning against the table, watching her eat. Why was he in her tent, looking after her? Didn’t he have better things to do?

“How’s your shoulder?”

Charlie blinked, surprised by his sudden ability to speak. “Sore.”

One of his eyebrows quirked in reply, but all he said was, “To be expected, I guess.” Silence fell between them once more, and Charlie set the now empty bowl down on the bed beside her. She lifted the canteen, and struggled to get the lid off with only one good arm. Monroe made no move to help her, for which Charlie was grateful. If there was one thing she hated more than anything else, it was being treated like a kid.

“I’m sorry.”

Charlie paused in her struggles with the lid and glanced towards Monroe. Okay, so there was a _second_ thing she hated more than anything else: pity. “Don’t be.”

But Monroe was firmly stuck in the camp of regret. His head was tilted downwards, and he just barely met her eyes in a mournful stare. “You were right,” he said. “We should have turned back. This is my fault.”

With a sigh, Charlie set her canteen down. She was firmly entrenched in this conversation now; she wasn’t sure how that had happened. “If I blamed you, you’d be dead.”

He snorted and stood up straight. “You overestimate your abilities if you think you can kill me.”

“And you underestimate mine if you think I wouldn’t find a way.”

He studied her for a minute, his eyebrows knitting together as he took in her bedraggled appearance—bloodstained and knotted hair, dirt-smeared face, stitched up shoulder. He swallowed. “Still, I’m—“

“If you apologize one more time, Monroe, I’ll find a window and throw you through it.”

His lips twitched and mirth played across his face. She could tell that he still felt bad about her getting shot, but he chose to drop the subject. Instead, he pulled out the satchel that he’d brought with him. “I found something last night while debriefing with Frank,” he said. “Thought you might like—“

“What did Frank say? About the Patriots,” Charlie interrupted.

Monroe’s hand stilled inside the satchel and a scowl overcame his face. “Really, Charlie? You gonna interrupt me while I’m giving you a damn present?”  
  
“Just tell me.”

His lips twisted into a mocking smile as he shook his head. “Nuh-uh, Thelma, you’re out of the fight for now. Doc Porter’s orders.” Monroe quirked his brow, enjoyment clear on his face as he watched Charlie’s mouth fall open. “You’re on bed rest for the next few days, till that shoulder of yours starts to heal. Light and friendly fun only. No war talk.”

“You have _got_ to be—“

“‘Fraid not,” Monroe said with a cheeky smile. He pulled the object out of the satchel and handed it to her. “That’s why I brought you this.” Charlie looked down at the book he offered, her lips falling closed. It was a battered and stained hardcover copy of _The Grapes of Wrath_. She flipped through the pages—there didn’t appear to be any missing, but they were all yellow with age and the bottom corner of the book was stained with what appeared to be blood. 

Charlie had never heard of this book before. As a matter of fact… “I don’t read much.”

Monroe’s bright, mirthful eyes dimmed and he scowled. “Are the words ‘thank you’ not in the Matheson vocabulary?”

She looked back down at the book with a sigh. Sure, she didn’t read much, but if she was really going to be stuck on bedrest for the next few days, this might help pass the time. With a timid nod, Charlie met his gaze again. “You’re right. Thanks.”

For a moment, Monroe seemed to freeze—apparently surprised by her capitulation, given that she could probably count on one hand the number of times she’d said “thank you” to him—and his eyes almost looked right through her. He was near silent, barely breathing, as he nodded once.

Charlie wasn’t sure what to do with this awkward silence—or with the way Monroe was looking at her, as though he still felt guilty for her pain and pity for her shoulder—so she shook the book like a tambourine and said, “Have you read it?”

Just like that, Monroe blinked back into focus. “Years ago. You’ll like it. The people are…” he shrugged, “nomads. Just like us.” His lips twitched into a smirk again. “Not a lot of Patriot ass-kicking, though. Sorry.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, then why even bother?” Next to her, Monroe gave a stilted chuckle, but Charlie was accidentally stuck on what she’d just said: why bother? Why had Monroe brought her food and water… a book to read? What was the point? Because surely this went beyond guilt, right? This was almost _too_ nice for simple guilt. “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Playing caretaker,” she replied with a one shoulder shrug. Monroe had always looked out for her—whether it was on the road to Willoughby or in the aftermath of the Austin shootings, he had always made it a priority to check in on her well-being. But this was over the top, even for him. “Why?”

She watched as Monroe hesitated, as lines appeared around the corners of his mouth and his eyes grew uncharacteristically soft. Absentmindedly, he began to scratch at the inside of his forearm, where his old Monroe/Matheson tattoo used to reside. The scar was a faint pink now and covered by faint wisps of light brown hair. “I had a close family growing up. I wanted a close family after I lost my own.” He pulled his hand away from his skin, and Charlie could see a thick, red welt starting to appear on his forearm from where he’d been rubbing his skin. “Taking care of family like this… it’s what you do.” 

There was a sincerity in his voice that Charlie had only heard once before, back in Rosebud when Monroe had previously told her about the deaths of his sisters and parents. With his blatant honesty, she couldn’t even bring herself to argue with him calling her family again. She swallowed; his vulnerability made her feel awkward and uncertain. Then—thankfully—he straightened up and gave a cheeky grin. “Course, I’ve also got to make up for nearly getting you killed.”

Charlie rolled her eyes and gingerly lowered herself back onto the cot. Her shoulder ached, so her voice was tight as she said, “I already told you, Monroe. If I blamed you for anything, you’d already be dead.”

It wasn’t until he left and she was alone again that Charlie realized exactly what that meant.

 

_It was nearly three days since the showdown in Austin: three days since Charlie killed Jason, two days since Neville tried to kill her, and a few hours since she, Rachel, and Monroe had rescued Miles. Charlie and the mercenary army were camped a hundred or so miles outside of Willoughby—trying to keep a low profile away from the Patriots—while Miles recovered from his stomach wound. Charlie wasn’t necessarily thrilled with the sudden downtime. She felt too restless and anxious to be sitting around for the next week, but it couldn’t be helped. Miles’s health was the most important thing at the moment, and they would stay put until he could safely move again._

_When Monroe entered her tent later that evening—a bottle of whiskey in one hand and the spare canteen in the other—Charlie knew she wasn’t the only one feeling the pain of the waiting game. Without saying a word, Monroe poured some whiskey into the canteen and handed it to her. Charlie hesitated before she took it (did she really want to drink with him?), but ultimately enjoyed the warm liquor burning down her throat and into her stomach._

_After a moment, Monroe spoke. “Heard Neville caught up with you.”_

_Charlie took a pull from the canteen and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket. “You surprised?”_

_“That you didn’t put a bullet in his brain? Hell yeah. What, you feel guilty over popping his kid, or something?”_

_That was Monroe for you: no tact. Still, Charlie only rolled her eyes and dropped her gaze to the ground. “I’m alive, aren’t I?”_

_He snorted. “Barely, from the sound of it.” Charlie wasn’t exactly thrilled that Connor had apparently been gossiping to his father about her, but she supposed it couldn’t be help. Monroe had always been a nosy son of a bitch; Connor must have gotten that unsavory quality from his dad. “You got lucky, kid.”_

_Charlie’s nose crinkled and her eyes snapped to his face. “And you’re lucky you brought whiskey, or else I’d have to kick your ass right now,” she said in a low, dangerous voice._

_Monroe, on the other hand, simply chuckled at her threat. He leaned back and raised the bottle towards her. “You know, you seem happier. Maybe even before the whole Austin showdown. Like you’re at peace.” He clearly didn’t know the whole story if he thought letting Neville pull the trigger had led her to peace. She and Monroe weren’t_ friends _, but even Monroe would have been horrified by Charlie essentially laying down to die._

_Still, it was weird how Monroe was the only one who’d noticed her sudden change of heart, her sudden desire to live. He was always on the outskirts of their group; maybe that’s why he saw everything. “I am.”_

_He stood with a shrug—whiskey bottle still held tight in his hand—and moved towards the exit of her tent. “Enjoy it while it lasts, kid. At best, happiness is fleeting. At worst, it’s a death sentence._ ”

 

By the end of their first week at the Tower, Miles was genuinely worried about Rachel’s health. She was the same obsessive, focused woman who threw herself head-first into her work without any thought for her own safety. Miles had to constantly hover in the background when she worked with Aaron, reminding her to eat or drink water throughout the day. Even Aaron himself—who was, admittedly, a bit of a basket case in the aftermath of Priscilla’s death—helped Miles in making sure Rachel performed basic self-care tasks.

There were moments when Rachel seemed almost normal—in these moments, she would be quiet and reserved, focusing on the task at hand. She would be quick to respond to anything anyone said, and Rachel would have her usual quirky, confident wit about her. But then, for the most part, the Rachel who Miles knew and loved would disappear. Instead, she would be quiet and withdrawn. Her entire focus would be on the pendent, on scribbling out formulas and working with the computers. She would furiously scratch out notes, rewrite them, and then scratch them out again. Over and over and over again, until her pen would dry up and Miles would have to find her a new one.

Occasionally, when she and Aaron would work in the main control room, Miles would catch Rachel staring absent-mindedly at the blood stains caused by Randall. Just days before, Miles had assumed that Rachel was over Randall’s suicide and the subsequent damage. Clearly, he had been wrong. 

Miles had no clue what had happened to Randall’s body—nor was he sure where the original inhabitants of the Tower had disappeared to—but he was admittedly glad that the body was gone by the time Rachel had returned. She was slowly losing her mind just being in the Tower; if Randall’s rotting corpse were at her feet, Miles could only imagine how far gone she would be.

Because the horrific truth was, even though Rachel was slowly going crazy within the Tower, there was nothing Miles could do to help her. They couldn’t leave; the Nano firmly wanted him, Rachel, Tom, and Aaron dead. Worse, they couldn’t simply stay hidden forever because the Nano were sure to go after Charlie, Gene, and Monroe, if they hadn’t already. The only way to stay safe—to ensure the safety of their family—was to destroy the Nanotech once and for all.

But being here, doing that, was slowly killing Rachel. Miles knew it, but he couldn’t bring himself to do anything about it. They had no choice. So here they sat, in limbo. Stuck.

As the days passed and their first week at the Tower came to a close, Miles found himself spending less time with the woman he loved and more time with Tom and Connor. Though Miles wasn’t particularly fond of either man, at least Connor and Tom weren’t batshit crazy or focused on mathematical problems he couldn’t comprehend. The three men had even found a small baseball, and they’d set up a makeshift hoop in the hallway outside of the main control room.

Miles thought this was a perfect way to pass the time; it kept everyone active and they were all within shouting distance of Rachel and Aaron in case something went wrong. He’d never been a big fan of baseball or basketball back before the Blackout, but being trapped in the Tower gave Miles a new appreciation for both sports.

Connor picked up the ball with a scowl on his face. “I thought we were all on separate teams.”

Miles rolled his eyes. “We are.”

“Then why are you two ganging up on me?” Connor asked. He tossed the ball back and forth in his hands. “Come on, we said no teams!”

“Life isn’t always fair, son,” Neville said. A sly grin was on his face, but for the first time in weeks, the harsh wrinkles that had formed near the edge of his eyes looked smoother and more relaxed. “You’ve got to learn that.”

Miles raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He was pretty sure Bass would be livid if he saw the way Neville was bonding with little Connor Bennett. But Bass wasn’t here, and Miles sure as hell wasn’t going to stir up trouble when they were in such tight quarters.

Connor, apparently, was thinking along similar lines because he glanced down to the end of the hallway and said, “We should move the game. There’s not enough room here.”

“We’re standing guard,” Miles said in a flat tone.

“Oh please,” Connor replied, his nose crinkling slightly. “We’re in an underground bunker that the Nanites can’t get into! We haven’t seen them since we got here. We’re safe. Aaron and Rachel can work alone for ten minutes while we explore.”

While Neville was normally the king of self-preservation, the security system within the Tower had apparently caused him to relax because he glanced at Miles and said, “That’s not the worst idea.” And it wasn’t. Rachel and Aaron were working mere feet away from the giant security system that recorded a live feed of the territory around the Tower, and even inside the Tower itself.

Miles paused, his lips parted as he looked down at the floor. “Maybe, I guess…”

Connor grinned, happy to have his idea taken seriously. “There are some tunnels or something on level eleven, I think. We could set up the hoop there and—“

Miles felt his heart stutter as his breath froze in his body. _No_. “We can’t,” he said, bite present in his voice. Flashes of Nora in his arms, her eyes falling shut as he and Charlie ran for the infirmary, played in his mind. Nora’s body growing still, her body becoming cold, her head hanging limp against his shoulder… He swallowed and snapped, “We just can’t.”

Connor blinked, his grip on the baseball loosening. “What? Why?”

But with the memories of Nora came a flood of guilt, and Miles could only turn on his heel and walk back into the control room. He felt guilt over Nora’s death and guilt over never giving her a proper burial. As he closed the door to the control room and looked out at Rachel, Miles felt guilt over being with her so soon after Nora’s death. He felt guilt for ignoring that Rachel had chosen her personal vendetta over taking care of Nora. He felt guilt for trusting Rachel to keep Nora safe.

Miles felt guilt for loving a crazy woman who screwed up again and again when Nora, his steady partner in crime, had died one floor above his head. Worse still, he felt guilty because he knew that even though Rachel didn’t deserve his affection, he couldn’t help but love her anyway.

 

By the time Charlie had been stuck on bed rest for five straight days, she was bored out of her fucking mind.

She’d long since passed the stage where she needed lots of rest so her body could heal. Her grandfather had removed the sling from her shoulder, though he still demanded that she spend most of her time sitting on her cot, or else “the sling will go right back on, you hear me young lady?”

Charlie had rolled her eyes at his orders—it wasn’t as though Grandpa Gene could stop her—but she tried hard to obey him. She knew that Frank and the other Rangers’ generals wouldn’t send her out on missions again until one of the doctors gave them the go-ahead; if she wanted back in the field, she had to at least pretend to rest.

And boy did Charlie Matheson want back in the field. There were only so many times she could read (and reread) _The Grapes of Wrath_ before she was ready to hit someone over the head with it. As loathe as Charlie was to admit it, Monroe had been right: Charlie enjoyed _The Grapes of Wrath_. She liked the tight family dynamic and the way the characters struggled in a—mostly—pre-electric world. She loved examining the parallels between modern society and past society. She even found the bizarre ending of the book to be oddly comforting.

But if she had to sit there and read the damn book one more time, she was going to lose her fucking mind. Charlie Matheson wasn’t a quiet, domestic, bookworm girl. She was a stubborn bitch with a gun, and she wanted to kill some Patriots.

When Monroe stepped foot into her tent around mid-day, Charlie was sitting cross-legged on her cot with her arms crossed over her chest. A scowl was on her face, and she spoke before Monroe could even open his mouth. “I don’t want to hear it,” she said with a tight shake of her head. “Unless you’ve got news, you can save your platitudes and get the hell out.”

Infuriatingly, Monroe’s lips twitched and he raised a brow. “I don’t know what you mean.”

But he did, and she knew it. For the last five days, the insufferable man had been by her tent to visit her every day around noon. He would bring her lunch, take a look at her shoulder, and try to distract her from her sluggish healing progress. Yet despite his frequent visits, Monroe was obnoxiously tight-lipped in regards to any news about the Patriots, the Rangers, or any war-clans. 

“I’m going out of my mind, Monroe,” Charlie snapped.

“Runs in the family.”

“Don’t get fucking cute with me.” Her eyes were narrowed and her jaw was clenched. Normally, she tried much harder to keep a more neutral expression on her face, but after five straight days of only talking to her grandfather and General Moron Monroe, Charlie’s quota of patience had dried up. “I’m a soldier. I want to talk strategy.”

He hesitated, clearly surprised by her words. Monroe ran a hand across the nape of his neck. “I’ll see if I can find another book—“

“No!” Her voice had grown loud, and Charlie internally wondered if Monroe could read the rising panic in her eyes. “No more books. I need action, Monroe. Something real, something that matters.” Her voice dropped—she couldn’t believe she was saying this, but… “Please.”

His eyes locked with hers, his blue irises reflecting back her frustration, her pain. It took him a moment of studying her face before his frame relaxed and he sat down in the wooden chair by her cot. Charlie uncrossed her legs in response; she knew she’d won.

“I handed Duncan’s map over to the Rangers and they just finished taking out the rest of the Patriots in our half of Texas,” he said in a weary tone. “Blanchard tells me Duncan’s vigilantes have cleared out most of eastern Texas as well. California has mobilized troops into the Wasteland to help the war clans kick the Patriots out of there. Word has it, the Patriots are providing little resistance.”

“That’s three territories,” Charlie said with a curt nod. “What about Georgia, the former Republic, and the Plains Nation?”

She noticed his jaw twitch when she said the word “former,” but Monroe didn’t address the comment. “Scouts say that the Patriots never really penetrated the Plains Nation, so we should be able to make quick work of that. The California troops will meet up with the Rangers at the south-western border to destroy the Patriots. Once the Plains are clear, the Rangers will move to take back Georgia and the Republic.”

“That’ll be tricky,” Charlie acknowledged. “Neither country has any leadership outside of the Patriots.”

Monroe gave a toothy smile. “That’s why we’re gathering allies along the way.”

There was something about the way Monroe said it—whether it be his cocky attitude or his use of the word “we”—that had Charlie stiffening. “You can’t rule the republic again,” Charlie said in a sharp tone.

Monroe only stood with a slight shrug and moved towards the exit of the tent. “We’ll see.”

Charlie bit her lip—figures the bastard was already making power plays; she’d have to watch him and make sure he didn’t do anything stupid—but then she called out, “Wait.” He paused in the entrance of the tent, but didn’t turn around. “Can you… look, talk with my grandpa, okay? I really am going crazy locked away like this.”

He kept his back to her, but Charlie could hear the slight smile in his voice when he said, “I’ve already cleared you to have dinner with some of the generals tonight. Ease you back into things.” He stepped out of the tent and called back, “You’re welcome!”

Charlie couldn’t help the smile that floated over her face; Monroe knew better than to expect thanks from her anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Charlie gets back on her feet and Aaron makes a big discovery, will be posted sooner than you think...


	20. Wonderwall: Act 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy bonus chapter!
> 
> So today is the birthday of the guy who utterly broke my heart about 9 months ago. So instead of being sad, I thought I'd post a bonus chapter! I hope you guys enjoy it! Next week's chapter may be a day or so late because my office is hosting a 500+ people event and oh, am I gonna be tired! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Drop me a line down below. Thanks!

“We’ve got it! Miles, we’ve got it!”

Just like that, Miles was awakened from his catnap on the floor of the main control room to find Rachel throwing her arms around his neck and nearly choking the life out of him. He wrapped his arms around her torso—in what appeared to be a hug but was really an effort to loosen her damn grip—and coughed out, “Huh?”

Aaron, thankfully, was much more composed and coherent. “We’ve isolated the section of the pendent’s code that repels the Nanites,” he explained.

“Oh.” Miles paused, uncertain. Even that techno-babble was too much for him. “Yay?”

“Very yay,” Aaron confirmed with a nod. “We can theoretically duplicate the pendent’s effects.”

“How?” The gruff voice of Tom Neville drew Miles’s attention to the doorway of the room. Apparently, Rachel’s shouts had alerted Neville and Connor to the excitement. The pair had been out in the hallway, probably playing with that damn ball again.

There was silence for a second before Aaron sighed. “How. Yeah, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He grabbed the pendent in his hand and gave it a tight squeeze. “We need to find some way to amplify the signal, to turn the pendent’s code into not just a repellent, but also a poison that kills the Nanites. And then we have to figure out how to make it cover the entire world—“

“So this celebrating thing is premature,” Miles concluded, a dry look on his face. “Great.”

“The next step,” Rachel said as she stood again, “is to recreate a pendent. Test our work, make sure everything is accurate. If we can recreate the pendent, then we can tweak and modify our copy without damaging the original.” There was a strength in her voice—Miles supposed today was a good, non-crazy day for Rachel—and even Aaron was nodding in support of her statements.

“We’ve already found a small circuit board.” He gestured towards what looked to be a series of wires connected to a small piece of metal. Or something. Miles was of the pull-the-trigger variety, not connect-the-wires; this all went way over his head. “Now we’re downloading the code. It should be complete within half an hour. Then we’ll know for sure if we’re on the right track.”

“And if we are?” Neville asked. His eyes were dark and skeptical. “What then?”

“Then we create a code to piggy-back onto this one that kills the Nanites,” Aaron explained with a small wave of his hand.

That sounded reasonable to Miles—not that he’d know if Aaron was just blowing smoke up his ass—and he nodded. “Cool. Get to it.” For once, there was an air of calm and confidence throughout the room; for a moment, it felt like everything was going to be all right.

He should have known it wouldn’t last. “Um, guys?” Connor said. He’d been silent throughout the entire computer presentation—Miles had almost forgotten Connor was there—but now the boy’s mouth was dropped open and his eyes were wide with horror. Connor was staring at one of the security monitors. With a dry throat, Miles whirled to face the security screens and stepped forward.

 

When Charlie Matheson joined Bass, Frank, and Gene around the fire that night for dinner, Bass couldn’t help the small and slightly goofy smile that came across his face. Finally, she was back in the real world again. Charlie was enough like him that Bass knew being cooped up inside a tent and tended to by a rotating selection of nurses was torture for her; he was happy Charlie finally got some freedom.

Bass felt Gene’s disapproving eyes on him, though, so he dropped his smile and schooled his features. He wasn’t sure how, but Gene had become aware that Bass felt more than basic familial feelings towards Charlie, and Gene had been watching him like a hawk ever since. In fact, Bass could only manage to visit Charlie in the middle of the day, when Gene was busy with other patients.

“Hey, it’s our wounded warrior!” Frank called out. He lifted a bottle of whiskey in a salute towards her but otherwise stayed seated by the fire. “How you feeling, kid?”

Her lips tightened at the word “kid,” but Charlie simply sat down right beside Bass and responded with, “Better.”

“That’s the spirit,” Frank said with a hearty chuckle. The man was drunk—what else was new?—and leaned dangerously close to the fire. “Got to get you back in the field.”

Gene’s eyes widened. “Now Frank—“

“Once your ass is out there,” Frank continued on, oblivious to those around him, “we’ll have the ol’ power duo back together again.” He gestured towards Bass with a shake of his head. “Can you believe it? Said he wouldn’t go out again without the kid.”

Bass felt Charlie’s eyes swivel to him, and her stare burned into his flesh, until he felt his face start to heat. He kept his voice low as he said, “She’s not a kid.” He could hear Frank give a boisterous laugh, but Monroe’s eyes had found Charlie’s. She was watching him, a spark of heat and curiosity visible in her gaze for the first time since she’d been in recovery. Gone was the desperate, caged look of boredom. In its place, Bass found fire, intrigue, and just a hint of surprised gratitude, as though she hadn’t expected him—of all people—to finally admit to what he’d known for a year: Charlie Matheson wasn’t a kid anymore. No, she was a woman, and he tried to hide how much that knowledge scared the hell out of him as he looked into her eyes, darkened by the night and her silent confusion—

“Water?” Gene asked in a gruff tone as he shoved his canteen in Charlie’s face.

She blinked, surprised by the sudden offer. “Uh, no thanks.”

“Uh-huh,” Gene said. His grip on the canteen tightened and as his eyes narrowed into a glare. “If you’re sure.”

Charlie shifted her weight so that she could better face her grandfather, surprise evident on her face. “Yeah, I’m sure… What’s wrong, Grandpa?”

Bass saw Gene’s eyes shoot to his, and a string of panic flared up within him. He didn’t want to be confronted here and now. Not in front of Frank, not in front of _Charlie_. He’d give anything for Gene to let the matter lie, at least for the time being.

And then the sound of gunfire rang out.

 

“No… no, it can’t be,” Aaron muttered as he stared slack-jawed at the security monitor in front of him. “They can’t be here—“

“They very demonstrably _are_ ,” Neville drawled with a roll of his eyes. His neck snapped towards Miles, and his voice grew sharp. “Should we take care of them?” he asked. Neville’s fingers traced over the handle of his gun, currently holstered in the back of his jeans.

Miles swallowed, before turning to Rachel. “Can they get in?”

Her voice was calm, but also faint with surprise as she replied. “Theoretically? No.”

He nodded once, his eyes drifting back to the screen above him. There, standing at the main entrance to the Tower was a crowd of maybe forty Nano-controlled humans. Or at least, Miles assumed they were all Nano-controlled. He could recognize the faces of President Davis, Truman, and Priscilla in the crowd. From the sound of Aaron’s sudden whimpering, Miles knew he’d seen his dead wife too. Without a word, Rachel reached over and wrapped her arm around Aaron’s shoulders. It was an army, one that couldn’t be permanently killed. They were surrounded and cornered like animals.

“We should attack,” Neville said once more, his grip on his gun tightening.

“No,” Miles said. “No, we’re safe here. The best thing we can do is keep working.”

 

While Gene and Frank both blinked in surprise at the sudden sound of gunfire, Bass and Charlie simultaneously grabbed each other’s arms and dropped to the ground. Charlie was quick to release him—he tried not to take affront to that; this was war—and she grabbed the gun she habitually kept tucked into the waistband of her pants. For a moment, Bass’s heart jumped into his throat—she had just been shot, this was _not_ what Charlie needed right now—but her fingers curled over the handle of her gun with a steady grip, and he forced all doubts from his head.

Bass mirrored her actions and grabbed his own gun before looking to Gene. “Get down, Gramps,” he called out. The noise startled the old man into action, and he clumsily dropped by their side.

“What the hell—“ Gene muttered.

But Bass was back to facing Charlie, and he spoke in a hurried tone. “The attack is coming from about a hundred yards to the north.”

“No heavy gunfire,” Charlie continued. She kept her voice low, speaking quickly. “Means it’s one or two people, maximum.”

“I’ve got it,” Bass said with a tight nod. “Take Zeke here into town. Blend. Stay safe. I’ll find you.” He tried to straighten up, but Charlie grabbed his arm and yanked him back down.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice sharp. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His heart started to thud in his chest. Normally, after someone’s been shot, they have anxiety and fear about being shot again so they stay away from potentially dangerous situations. Not Charlie, though; she had a glint of determination in her eyes. No, in reality, it was Bass who felt the fear and anxiety, fear that he’d see her crumble to the ground, fear that he’d lose her permanently. He swallowed. “Your arm—“

“Isn’t the one I use to hold a gun,” Charlie said in a steady voice. Apparently, the topic of conversation wasn’t up for discussion, because she turned to her grandfather. “Go into town. You’ll be safe.”

Before either Gene or Bass could comment, Charlie had jumped up and was jogging towards the sound of gunfire. Bass scrambled to his feet, but the sound of a shotgun being cocked made him pause. “Whooee!” Frank called out, holding the gun tight in his hands. “Let’s kill some sons of bitches!”

 

“I don’t get it,” Connor asked from where he stood by the door. Though Aaron and Rachel were relaxed and sitting at the main computer, Miles, Neville, and Connor were all armed and fiercely watching the security feeds. Aaron had hooked up the circuit board—or whatever it was; Miles couldn’t be sure—to the main computer and was apparently copying the software until it. Connor, however, was pacing, his eyes glued to the security screens. “Why now? Why didn’t they come for us before?”

“The Tower’s theoretically the only place left in the world with the working technology to destroy the Nano,” Aaron said, though his eyes stayed locked on the monitor in front of him. “They want the Tower destroyed. But the Nanites can’t get in. And the Nano-controlled humans didn’t know how to get in. They needed us to show them the way.”

Connor frowned. “But we sabotaged the entrance,” he said slowly. “We made it so they can’t follow us.”

“Exactly,” Rachel said in a soft monotone. “They probably followed us all the way from Idaho. The Nanites would have commanded the Nano-controlled humans to keep their distance from us so we would feel safe enough to come here, but by the time they caught up, we’d already sealed ourselves inside.”

“Basically,” Aaron summed up, “we accidentally outsmarted them.”

“And it only took us sixteen years,” Miles muttered with a scowl.

 

Bass was crouched behind a tent opposite Charlie, with Frank hiding behind one a few feet away. They all knew that a tent was hardly decent cover from a bullet, but if the attacking Patriot didn’t know they were there, they should be safe. Still, Bass would have felt better about the odds if they were fighting in a forrest or a building. Being attacked on their home turf like this left them vulnerable to dying because of one, lone fucker.

Because Bass and Charlie knew by now that it was only _one_ Patriot trying to kill them. Somehow, he’d made it past the perimeter guards and the initial wave of Rangers who fought back against him. Somehow, only Bass, Charlie, and Frank had come to fight him.

It was disconcerting; he’d never known the Rangers to be cowards, so where were they?

They heard movement a few yards in front of the row of tents they were crouched behind, and Charlie caught his eye. She raised the barrel of her gun up near her face and tilted her head to the side in a questioning manner. In response, Bass shook his head once and raised up out of his crouch. _He_ would take point; she would cover him. He couldn’t do anything about the fact that she wanted to fight, but he’d be damed if he put her on the front lines so soon after her injury.

A look of frustration crossed her face, but she nodded once anyway, agreeing to the plan. Bass held his breath as the footsteps drew closer. _Drip, drip…_ Any second now, the Patriot would be in perfect range, close enough that there was almost no chance Bass could miss the shot. _Drip, drip…_ What was that sound? His unease grew as the Patriot stepped closer and closer to them. But he couldn’t think about that now. _Drip, drip…_ Any second…

The sound of blood dripping from a body registered in his mind just as Bass leaned out from behind the tent and put a bullet through the Patriot’s chest.

The man fell. Bass began to lower his gun, only to realize with horror that blood coated the fallen Patriot’s entire torso; bullet-holes covered his chest, his legs, his arms. How had the Patriot been able to move, to fight? Something wasn’t right. And then, as if in answer to Bass’s silent questions, a thin, yellow substance coated his torso and glowed—what the fuck was that—until the Patriot sat straight up and fired at Bass’s head.

Charlie, having been around the Nanotech more than Monroe, had recognized the signs of the technology well before he, and she lunged at the General, tackling him before he could get hit. The bullet whizzed by his ear, but he barely noticed as he hit the grass. Shock coursed through him, and Charlie had to press her head into his chest for cover as the Patriot began firing once more.

“What the _hell_ —“ Bass sputtered.

“I don’t know,” she said, one hand pressed down against his chest, the other gripping her gun. Bass was alarmed to hear a harried note in her tone. “He won’t die. We can’t—“

That was when Frank Blanchard stepped out from behind the tent and began firing on the Patriot. Shot after shot went through the man’s torso—the body jerked, and danced, and finally fell still. With a triumphant grin, a drunken Frank turned back to face Charlie and Bass. With a slight struggle, the pair sat up straight and looked at the older man. “See? Piece of cake.”

But Frank missed the yellow glow that surrounded the body and didn’t see the Patriot raise his gun until it was too late. Bass winced as a gunshot rang out, as a bright red dot appeared in the center of Frank’s forehead, and as the man fell forward, dead.

 

While Aaron and Rachel worked to speed up the download of the pendent’s code to their new device, Neville examined the congregation on the screen before him in horrified awe. Unlike Miles, Neville and Connor had actually met a lot of these people when they had been imprisoned in Bradbury. Some of them, he had names for. Most, he did not. “California commander,” he muttered. “President Davis. Bonnie, daughter of a war clan king. Wasteland mob leader…”

Neville noticed Miles blink, his eyes squinting up at the screen. “They’re all prominent leaders. Of various intellectual, political, and social groups.”

“To make assimilating into our world easier,” Connor realized, a look of astonishment on his face. “They can pull the strings, get humanity to do whatever they want with no resistance.”

“Like the Cylons in Battlestar Galactica,” Aaron added. “No one will be able to tell the difference between the Nanites and the humans. No one will _want_ to tell the difference.”

Neville agreed with a soft nod. “One thing can be said about the Nanites. They do their research.”

 

Charlie rolled onto her feet. “We need new cover,” she whispered to Bass as she glanced around at the various tents. It took him a moment to break out of the stunned stillness the zombie Patriot had instilled in him, but Bass soon followed suit and cocked his gun.

“I’ll cover you,” he said, his voice strong. “Run. Find Gramps and run.”

He watched as Charlie’s head snapped around, a look of fury on her face. “No.”

“Charlotte—“

“I’m not leaving you behind.” She too cocked her gun—he’d have to drag her off, to force her to abandon him somehow, to save her life—but an unlikely sound saved Bass the trouble.

“Excuse me? I just want to talk.”

Bass and Charlie both tensed and raised their weapons as the zombie Patriot spoke. They exchanged glances—what kind of trick was this?—and Bass shook his head. No matter what the Patriot said, they couldn’t let their guard down.

“I just want to take his body,” the Patriot continued. “That’s all. Let me take the body, and no one gets hurt.”

Bass watched as Charlie blinked, her upper curling in confusion. He was just as lost as she was. Why would the undead Patriot want to take Frank’s body? What would the point be? It had to be a trick, it had to. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, Bass gestured towards other side of the tent, where the Patriot stood: they would attack him together and keep shooting until he was incapacitated enough that they could run. She nodded in response, took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

“We have a deal.”

Bass and Charlie both whipped around to see Gene appear. The man walked towards the Patriot with his hands raised in the classic don’t-shoot gesture. He stopped walking when he was level with Charlie and Bass’s hiding place. “Take the body. Then leave.”

“Grandpa—“ Charlie said as she moved towards him. But Bass wrapped his arm around her bicep and pulled her back. He didn’t want the Patriot to be able to see her, to have a direct shot at her head.

But the smooth voice of the Patriot only said, “Thank you.” It wasn’t until Bass heard the sound of flesh dragging against the ground that he released Charlie’s arm and they both rejoined Gene. Barely visible in the distance, Bass could see the bloodstained back of the Patriot retreating into the night, dragging Frank’s limp form after him feet-first. Bass could barely see Frank’s white head knocking into the rocks on the ground when he swallowed and turned to Gene.

“I told you to run, Gramps,” Bass said with a cocked brow.

Charlie, on the other hand, took a different approach. She stepped right up to her grandfather’s face and seethed, “What the _hell_ was that? You let him take Frank?”

“A dead man. To save your life? I’d make that trade any day,” Gene replied in an even tone.

On the one hand, Bass silently agreed with this analysis; he certainly valued Charlie’s life much higher than Frank’s—god rest his soul—but as Charlie spoke again, he conceded that she had an excellent point. “That was a Nano-possessed person, Grandpa. It had to be. Like Priscilla was.”

Gene stepped back in surprise. “I… Okay. So—“

“So you just handed them something they wanted,” she continued. Fire burned behind her eyes and her hair hung around her face. Bass wasn’t sure if he should physically pull her back or let Charlie get her anger out. “And we don’t even know what their plan is.”

“We don’t know for sure—“

This was clearly out of Gene’s element; Bass took this as an opportunity to interject. “The Patriots are on the run,” he said, drawing Charlie’s attention. “The Rangers have them cornered. Maybe they aren’t the biggest threat anymore.”

Some of the fire left her eyes as she stepped away from Gene. “You think we should go after Miles and my mom?”

Bass sighed. “I wish. We don’t know where they are. They left for Bradbury months ago.”

“They could still be there—“

“And if they’re not?” Bass asked. He met Charlie’s gaze evenly, his brow hanging heavy. “What if Bradbury’s a trap? What then?” She fell silent, but her frustration was evident from the tension in her shoulders. She looked lost and wary, and Bass couldn’t blame her. How do you fight an enemy you can’t see? How do you fight an enemy that won’t die?

 

Aaron set the original pendent next to his downloading prototype and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. This was too much, it was all too much. The new, copied pendant was still downloading, but would it be ready in time to help? Priscilla, his loving wife, was dead and at his doorstep. He could see her staring up at the security camera, almost as though she were looking into his eyes. He just wanted to touch her, to hold her again. Priscilla, his Priscilla—

A hand clamped down on his shoulder, and Aaron jumped. “Don’t even think about it,” Neville said in a rough voice.

“Hey!” Rachel interjected as she shot to her feet. 

She pulled on Neville’s hands, but the stronger man resisted. Instead, Neville continued to glare down at Aaron, leaning forward so that their faces were inches apart. “You even think about letting your little girlfriend in—“

“That’s enough,” Miles said. With a yank, he ripped Neville off of Aaron and threw him against the wall. Even after all of the tension and fear within the room, Miles still managed to look utterly bored with the situation. It was a talent. “Shut up, everyone. This isn’t helping.”

Aaron, on the other hand, was slack-jawed and trembling. “She was my wife!” he shouted, leaning around Miles so he could face Neville. Miles and Rachel both tried to wrap their arms around Aaron in an effort to calm him down, but he shrugged them both off. “Do you get that? She was my _wife_. And now she’s _dead_!”  
  
“Aaron—“ Rachel tried in a soft voice.

“She’s dead, and she should stay dead,” Aaron said, his eyes drifting back to the screen. “You don’t get it. You can’t. She shouldn’t be here, walking around. She should… she should just be gone, and I can’t—“ 

He was cut off by the _ding_ of the computer announcing that the download was finished. Aaron and Rachel didn’t have time to react, because the moment the downloaded ended, the original pendent and the prototype both grew painfully hot to the touch and all of the electronics in the room went haywire.

 

“Ow! Fuck!” Charlie screamed out of no where. On instinct, Bass lunged for her, but Charlie pushed him away. She reached inside of her shirt, wrapped her hand around the cord that hung against her skin, and pulled it over her head. With shaking hands, she dropped the pendent to the ground and quickly rubbed at her raw skin.

Gene blinked in confusion. “What the…”

The pendent was glowing, just like it used to over a year ago when it provided power. With a shared breath, Bass and Charlie locked eyes. They both knew what this meant. “Aaron said the pendants had stopped working,” Charlie told him, her voice even.

“I know of only one place to make this crap work again,” Bass added. “Don’t you?”

“I bet you anything Miles and my mom are there,” Charlie said with a quick nod. She looked back down at the pendent. “They have to be.”

“Will someone _please_ tell me what’s going on?” Gene grumbled, looking frantically between Bass, Charlie, and the pendent on the ground.

Somehow, the synchronicity that Bass and Charlie always felt when they fought or strategized translated to their thoughts. They exchanged momentary glances, looked at Gene, and said simultaneously, “We’re going to the Tower.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which Charlie and Bass make plans to head to the Tower, will be posted on Wednesday.


	21. Cold-Blooded: Act 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Memorial Day! 
> 
> So... I'm not dead! I know, I'm a horrific person for disappearing for 2 whole months, but life has exponentially gotten crazier. I'm working 3 different jobs (which, as of June, will finally dwindle down to two), got a promotion, and am officially leaving the nest. Yes, this here millennial is moving into her first apartment next weekend, and I am stoked! 
> 
> I mean, I have about 500 things to do first, but I'm still stoked.
> 
> I've been working 6 day weeks for the last two months, so thank god for this holiday because I really, really needed it. I'm so sorry for the giant delay! For the next month or so, as I get my life in order, I'm going to aim for an update every 2 weeks. That way I won't leave you lot high and dry, but I'll also have time to actually, you know, write it. Hopefully, once things calm down, I can get back to the regular schedule.
> 
> Thank you for everyone who was worried about me and to everyone who missed reading this story! I feel so loved (and then even shittier, since I let ya'll down). I hope this next chapter was worth the wait! Thank you!

“Shit, oh shit,” Aaron muttered as the lights throughout the control room flickered and the security camera feed flashed. A high-pitched feedback sound echoed throughout the room, causing Connor to clutch at his ears in pain. “Not good, not good, not good.” He lunged for the computer and began frantically typing, but it didn’t seem to help; the computer screen kept turning on and off, and the control room continued to surge with power. A glance at the security monitors—flickering on and off like a deranged strobe light—showed him that the Nano zombies were moving, but he couldn’t tell where to or why, and his heart started to pound against his ribs, sweat gathering on his upper lip—

“Aaron!” Miles shouted, but Aaron wasn’t listening. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Tom raise his gun and point it at the door. “What the hell—“

“Just in case,” Tom snapped in response. The loud noise continued to screech and worm its way into Aaron’s brain, but it was as if Tom and Miles hadn’t noticed. After a moment’s pause, Miles followed suit. Tom’s head snapped back around to glance at Aaron. “Fix this.”

Aaron’s face was twisted into an expression of sheer panic, but his face snapped in and out of Miles’s view as the lights turned on and off. It was like they were standing in the middle of a strobe-lit club; everyone’s movements came in jerky fragments that could only occasionally be seen. Maybe it was because of this that Miles didn’t notice Rachel move towards the computer until she was already pushing Aaron out of the way. “Rachel—“

Her fingers wrapped around the original pendant and she threw it into the corner by the door. Instantly, everything stabilized. The lights turned back on and, to everyone’s relief, they stayed on. The security camera feed stopped being a fuzzy mess and became clear. As one, everyone breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Rachel for an explanation.

Her arms were crossed over her chest and her eyebrows were raised as she stared down the men. “The new pendant reacted with the old one,” she explained in a calm, no-nonsense tone. “They were too close together. It caused feedback.”

“Oh,” Aaron muttered in response. “That… makes sense.” He took his glasses off and began cleaning them on his shirt, but his eyes were trained to the floor, as though he didn’t want to look at anyone.

Connor set his gun on a low metal table, bent down, and picked up the original pendant. It was a little scratched from being tossed around, but it appeared to otherwise be in good shape. He dragged his finger across the pendant’s face—something so small had created a surge so crazy—and wrapped the cord around his wrist.

Neville’s lips drew together into a thin line. He walked right up to both Aaron and Rachel, leaning into their faces. “Don’t let it happen again.”

Aaron’s eyes grew wide at the threat, but Miles simply scowled, grabbed the back of Tom’s shirt, and pulled. “Down, boy,” he said. He looked back at Rachel. “Did the surge cause a security breach?”

She hesitated, tilting her head to the side, before she answered. “It’s possible, though unlikely. We’re on level 12. The surge would have had to reach all the way up to the surface to cause any potential damage—“

“We should probably assume the worse,” Connor said. He wrapped his fingers around his gun again, his grip tight.

Miles frowned. “Why?”

In response, Connor gestured towards the security feed with his gun. “They’re gone,” he said, his voice soft. “All of them.” 

Looking at the screen in acute horror, Miles saw that the Nano-controlled humans were, indeed, gone. The forty or so people that had previously stood outside of the bunker doors had disappeared, all except for Priscilla. Aaron’s lover continued to stand within view of the camera, staring up with a twisted half-smile on her face. Miles could hear a sharp whimper escape Aaron’s throat, and the sound spurred him into action.

“Connor, Neville. Go into the hallway and stand guard. Shoot anything that comes by,” Miles said in a brisk voice. His natural military tendencies were starting to take over, and it felt almost comforting to fall back into his normal commanding routine. “Rachel, I need you to go through all of the security cameras in this place. Look for any sign of movement. I’ll cover you if trouble comes.”

“And me?” Aaron asked, but his voice was soft.

“Keep working,” Miles ordered. “The Nanites are here because they think we can stop them. So let’s prove them right.”

 

In the aftermath of the Nano attack on the Rangers’ camp, Claire Donegan had been placed in charge of the Texan military. Everyone was disheartened by the sudden death of Frank Blanchard; though he was a bit of a womanizing blowhard, Frank was still a likable guy and a competent general. He would be mourned by many and missed by all.

Charlie, Monroe, and Gene planned to leave the Rangers’ camp prior to Frank’s funeral. Gene wished to stay and pay his respects, but his granddaughter and Monroe were both anxious to get moving towards the infamous Tower. In all honesty, Gene had trouble wrapping his head around their shared drive. Though Gene knew the Nanites were dangerous—he’d watched them set people on fire a year ago, for crying out loud—he also knew that Charlie and Monroe weren’t equipped to stop them. At best, the pair could be security for Rachel, Aaron, and Priscilla. That sort of military work wasn’t what either Charlie or Monroe enjoyed doing—they both liked to be on the front lines, fighting actual people—so Gene didn’t understand why they were so quick to pack up their stuff and leave camp.

With their satchels resting high on their backs, Charlie, Monroe, and Gene met with Claire prior to their departure. Though she hadn’t been present for the attack on Frank, Claire was all too aware of what had really occurred. She not only sanctioned Monroe and Charlie’s quest to the Tower, but she financially backed it as well.

“Here are the horses,” she said in a clipped tone. She gestured towards three horses tied to a hitching post just outside of camp. “They’re fast. It should make for a swift trip.”

“Hopefully we’ll beat winter,” Monroe replied with a nod. “If we get snowed in—“

“You shouldn’t,” Claire interrupted. “We’ve mapped the journey for you—“ she handed them a rolled up piece of parchment. “Provided you manage your time wisely, your journey should take no more than three weeks.”

Gene blinked. “That short?”

Claire nodded once, but she was looking at Monroe when she answered. “We’ve given you our best horses. There are no excuses. You _need_ to stop these… things. As soon as possible. For Frank.”

“You got it, sister,” Monroe said with a lazy grin.

With a heavy sigh, Claire closed her eyes. “Oh, I’m going to regret trusting you.”

“Hey!”

“Hopefully you’ll see us again, along with Miles and Rachel,” Gene said, stepping in. He gripped Claire’s hand and gave it one, firm shake. “We appreciate your help, we really do.” Gene glanced towards his granddaughter. She had been oddly silent throughout the entire exchange, and he found her eyes trained on the horizon. She wasn’t one to pay attention to polite conversation or political deals; Charlie just wanted to go, to act. All of this waiting around was like death to her. A quick glance at Monroe showed him in a similar state, shifting from foot to foot like he wanted to run. Gene frowned; he was going to have his hands full with these two. For a moment, he almost considered staying behind. Charlie and Monroe were a well-oiled machine, and he couldn’t dream of keeping up with them. Why bother trying?

Then he caught the way Monroe glanced down at Charlie—a gentle concern present in his eyes—and Gene was violently reminded of why he couldn’t leave _that man_ alone with his granddaughter. No damn way.

Claire nodded once, but her eyes were tight. “Good luck.”

Gene couldn’t help but snort. “Thanks,” he muttered. “I think I’ll need it.”

 

A few days after the power surge fiasco in the control room, Miles had settled into an admittedly dull routine of watching Aaron closely. While he didn’t think the soft-spoken guy would do anything stupid, it was becoming increasingly clear that he wasn’t paying as much attention to his surroundings as he should have been.

Miles couldn’t exactly blame him; for the last three days, Priscilla had been standing in front of the security camera with an eerie grin on her face. Day or night, she was there. Unmoving, no change to her expression—she was like a finely sculpted statue standing right in front of the bunker doors.

Rachel wanted to turn the monitor off—give Aaron a break from staring at his dead ex-wife—but Miles insisted the camera needed to stay on for security purposes. Though no one had breached the Tower during the power surge—Rachel had been correct; the surge only impacted the bottom three levels—that didn’t mean the Nano had given up. If anything, their sudden disappearance after Rachel had put a stop to the surge only raised his suspicions that the evil creatures had something more nefarious planned.

As it stood, however, it was clear that Priscilla was waiting. Whether it was for Aaron to crack and let her in, or for a signal from the other Nanites, Miles didn’t know for sure. Therefore, he thought it best to play it safe and watch over Aaron, just in case.

Aaron, to his credit, worked really hard to not pay attention to his dead wife. He had taped a file folder against the side of the security monitor, blocking the screen from his point of view. Aaron worked diligently, tweaking his makeshift pendant, entering computer codes, and scratching away in a small black notebook Connor had dug up earlier in the week. 

Every now and again, though, Miles would catch Aaron pausing in his work. He would look up towards the screen, his mouth gaping open, his body tense. Miles got the feeling that Aaron almost wanted to lunge for the folder and remove it so that he could see Priscilla again, but he never did. Instead, Aaron would always clear his throat, then get back to work.

While Miles was pretty concerned about Aaron, he was _really_ concerned about Rachel. The computer science and engineering portion of taking down the Nanites had officially reached well beyond her breadth of knowledge. Instead of brainstorming with and helping Aaron, she now sat quietly in the corner of the room.

Day in and day out, Rachel appeared to sink further and further inside of herself. She sat on the ground with a rounded spine and her chin pressed to her chest. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, and her hair hung in front of her eyes. One day, when he’d felt particularly worried, Miles had tried to sit beside her and comfort her. He’d wrapped his arms around her shoulders, only to have her shrug out of his grasp and scoot further away without a word. All Miles could do was raise both of his hands in an innocent gesture and back away.

Instead of helping fight the Nanites, Miles had been regulated to babysitter, watching over the resident brain and his girlfriend as they bobbed back and forth through the realms of sanity as though they were yo-yos.

But there was nothing else he could do; after having been with Rachel for over a year now, he knew that Rachel would pull herself out of her funk when the time was right. And Aaron, though he certainly wasn’t well-adjusted, was at least distracting himself enough that he could function as a human being. No, all Miles could do was stay alert and wait.

Easier said than done.

 

Gene Porter was _not_ happy with the trek to the Tower. He, Monroe, and Charlie had been on the road for about a week when the anxiety at watching his granddaughter and a murdering psychopath bond together began to overwhelm him. Every day, Monroe would ride at the front, leading the three up north towards Colorado. And every day, Charlie would flank him—her good hand on the reins, her bad one on the hilt of her gun.

The pair very rarely spoke. Charlie had never been particularly loquacious, and Monroe was near-incapable of holding a serious conversation, anyway. However, Gene still felt incredibly uncomfortable with the close proximity the two kept.

Monroe would look back at her every ten minutes or so, checking to see if she was okay.If they had to climb rocky terrain, Monroe would lean back and make sure Charlie’s horse made it up the steep incline all right. He would call for them to stop and take a break—at first, Gene thought the rest stops were random, but then he noticed Monroe stopped everyone whenever Charlie looked stiff and tense—and the gruff man would even spot her as she struggled off of her horse.

Their silent exchange of thanks—when Charlie would stare straight into his eyes and Monroe would smirk in response—unnerved the _hell_ out of him. Even worse, Gene couldn’t exactly say anything. What was he supposed to do? Tell Monroe _not_ to help his injured and recovering granddaughter, to _not_ make sure she was okay?  
He almost felt as though he were intruding on them. After having spent weeks alone together, Charlie and Monroe had perfected a system of traveling, hunting, and sleeping that allowed them to be efficient. They didn’t even both discussing anything they did; one shared look and they were both on the same page. Gene didn’t belong with them, and it was that feeling of not belonging that scared the hell out of him. Charlie was his granddaughter; she was precious to him.

This wasn’t right; he had to do something.

 

“Here. Take this.”

Aaron blinked and slowly dragged his eyes away from the computer screen, only to find Tom Neville standing behind him with a half-drunken bottle of whiskey in his outstretched hand. It took Aaron a moment to form a complete sentence, and even then he could only get out, “Where…”

“The president’s room, or whatever it was,” Neville replied in a clipped tone. He sat in one of the swivel chair next to Aaron, a light _creak_ sounding as the joints of the chair groaned. “There’s some good stuff left too. Glenfiddich. But personally, I’ve always been a Macallan Gold kind of guy,” he said as he tapped the foggy bottle.

Aaron cleared his throat as Neville took a swig. This wasn’t normal, for the two of them to talk. To be honest, Neville scared the hell out of him. “Where is everyone?”

“Asleep. It’s after three in the morning.” Neville raised an eyebrow. “Or have you not noticed? Too lost in your imaginary electronic world?”

Aaron sighed as his cheeks began to flush. “Well, it’s been so great talking to you. Really, lot of fun, but if you don’t mind—“

“I wanted to apologize.” Though the words were sincere, Neville’s tone sounded almost hostile. Still, it was enough to make Aaron pause and turn back to the other man. “I shouldn’t have said what I did about… your wife. It was in the heat of the moment. It wasn’t right.”

“Wow, that’s… Um, okay. Yeah.”

Neville rolled his eyes and leaned back in the chair, then nudged the whiskey bottle towards Aaron. “I know what you’re going through.”

At this, Aaron’s mouth dropped open and he let out an incredulous, “No you _don’t_ —“

“The Nanites are making me see Jason.” For a moment, there was silence. Then, Aaron’s mouth slammed shut and Neville kept speaking. “For months now, they’ve appeared to me as my boy. It’s his face. It’s his voice. It’s even his pattern of speech.” Neville gave a bitter laugh. “But it’s not him.”

“That’s… I didn’t… I mean—“

“Nobody knows,” Neville said in a sharp voice. “The Monroe boy does, but that’s it. Not Miles. Certainly not Rachel,” he said with slight disdain. “And they can’t know. They already don’t trust me. I don’t need Miles looking at me like I’m about to lose my sanity and help the Nanites just because they have my boy’s face.”

Aaron snorted. “Like they’re looking at me.”

Tom’s lips curled into a tight smile, and he agreed. “Like they’re looking at you.” Silence filled the room for a moment, and Aaron filled it by finally taking a drink from the bottle of whiskey. The liquid burned down his throat and he coughed in response, but Neville was already speaking again by the time Aaron set the bottle back down. “I thought about it, you know. Joining the Nano. Back when we first got to Bradbury.”

Aaron’s eyes went wide—why the hell would Neville tell _him_ this?—but all he said was, “Why didn’t you?”

His eyes were cold and distant, but Neville still met Aaron’s gaze head-on. “Don’t get me wrong. It would have been great to have my boy back. To talk with him every day. To work beside him again, to get it right this time. But it wouldn’t be real.” He gave a curt shake of his head. “None of it would be real. Which means it could all be taken from me so fast. If I pissed off the Nanites… if I dared to disagree about something—“ he snapped his fingers, “then my boy would be gone again. And I couldn’t lose him twice. So revenge it is. That,” he said with a smirk as he grabbed the bottle once more, “that at least is real.”

Aaron turned his head back towards the computer screen, his thoughts swimming. It had been awhile since he’d had anything to drink—let alone whiskey—and the alcohol was already hitting him. Maybe it was just the booze talking, but he felt as though Neville were bonding with him over their shared Nanite problems. Or interrogating him; on second thought, that was more likely. “I’m not going to help her,” Aaron said in a cautious voice. “Priscilla… that _thing_ inside of Priscilla. She’s not my wife.” He glanced back at Neville, who watched Aaron with narrowed eyes. “You’re right. Revenge is the only real thing we have.”

His lips curled and he stood. “Glad to hear it.”

 

About a week and a half into Bass’s journey towards the Tower with Charlie and Gene, he found himself cornered by the old man while Charlie went to a nearby stream to fish. The old man came out of no where, waiting until Charlie had been gone for barely five minutes before Gene grabbed ahold of Bass’s arm. Gene was in his face and speaking before Bass could even blink. “You need to tell me right now, what the hell is going on with you two?”

Bass stumbled back, his hand grasping at his horse for balance as he shrugged out of Gene’s hold. “What?”

“You and Charlie,” Gene’s voice became a little more even, now that he had Bass’s full attention. “I see the way you look at her—“

“I’ve already told you, old man. Nothing’s going on!” He threw his hands up and tried to push past Gene, but Gene threw his arm out and stopped him.

“Don’t lie to me. I’m not as naive as I look.”

“Naive wasn’t the word I was thinking,” Bass said with a raised eyebrow. “Now, paranoid, on the other hand…” Gene opened his mouth, but Bass cut him off before he could speak. “I’m so sick of people thinking there’s something going on with Charlie and me. First Duncan, then every goddamn bartender in the state of Texas—“

“Yeah? And what does that tell you? If everyone thinks you’re a couple…” he trailed off with a shudder.

Bass fought the urge to look away from Gene; he knew doing so would only make him look guilty. Which was, admittedly, the truth. Bass was very, _very_ guilty of liking Charlie more than he should. There was no doubt in his mind about that. The way she looked at him turned his brain to jelly, it made his heart race and his hands shake. But Gene—and _Miles,_ for that matter—would absolutely kill him if they ever found out, so all Bass could say was, “Maybe everyone has too much damn time on their hands.”

Once more, Bass tried to push past Gene, and once more, the old man stopped him. “Now you listen here, Monroe. I don’t know what kind of sick fantasy you have about my granddaughter, but let’s get one thing straight. You don’t know her. Not really,” he said, raising his voice as Bass opened his mouth to argue. “You know Charlie Matheson the soldier, the fighter. The dependable assassin who follows your orders and gets things done.” Gene leaned forward. “But let’s be very clear. You don’t know Charlie the woman. At all. So stay away from her.”

Maybe Gene meant for his warning to dissuade Bass from spending time with her. He imagined that Gene probably had a satisfied look on his face as he stomped off. But all Bass could think as he watched Gene wander towards their fire was how right the crazy old fucker was: Bass didn’t know her, not really. It was about time he changed that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which breakthroughs abound, while posted once I move into my damn apartment!


	22. Cold-Blooded: Act 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been over a year since I've updated. My apologies; real life kind of got in the way. A new chapter is below, and I'm currently working on the next one, which will be up... someday.
> 
> Thank you for your patience.

After nearly two weeks of Rachel sitting silently in the corner––staring at the wall, not talking to anyone––Miles had more or less written her off until after the Nanites were defeated. It wasn’t that he had given up on her—quite the contrary; he was determined to _not_ give up on her—but he needed to prioritize. Rachel was struggling to function like a human being, let alone a normal, happy individual. Miles had to remind her to eat or drink water for sustenance. He had to put her to bed every night, or she was liable to forget and spend the majority of her evening staring at the wall. He told himself that once the Nano were defeated, he could get her back to normal. It would take time—time, they didn’t have right now—but he would eventually fix her. Or, at least, that’s what he told himself.

So imagine his utter shock when Rachel jumped to her feet one day and croaked out, “I’ve got it.” Her voice was hoarse from her extended period of silence, but her face was lit with life for the first time in days. “I figured it out. I know what to do.”

Miles’s eyes were wide as he reached out for her. “Rach, calm down—“

“I know how to defeat the Nanites.”

From his place at the computer, Aaron swiveled his chair to look at Rachel with surprise. “Really?” Aaron was right to be a little skeptical; he alone had been working on some sort of code to kill the Nanites for the last two weeks. In fact, even Tom and Connor had given up on being of help; they were currently exploring the rest of the Tower.

“It’s not a code,” Rachel said. She swayed back and forth from one foot to the other, almost bouncing with excitement. “The answer isn’t a code, Aaron. It’s a virus.”

Aaron blinked. “A computer virus? Uh, Rachel, I hate to tell you this, but—“

“No. A biological virus.” She was grinning from ear to ear (after her near comatose state, Miles thought her sudden excitement was almost creepy) and she looked back and forth between Aaron and Miles, but neither reacted. “Don’t you understand? 

“No,” Miles said in a flat voice.

“The Nanites have taken human form,” she explained, her voice becoming stronger the longer she spoke. “Which means they’re susceptible to human viruses—“

“So we just wait for the Nanites to take over human bodies and _then_ we get them sick?” Miles asked, his face twisted up in a look of distaste.

But Aaron drew in a sharp breath. “No. The Nanites are in human bodies but… but they’re still connected to the, I don’t know. The Nanite consciousness.” Upon seeing Miles’s blank look, Aaron clarified, “The Nanites in the dead humans are still connected to the Nanites floating through the air.”

“If you infect the humans, you infect the Nanites in the atmosphere,” Rachel confirmed with a nod. “That will wipe the vast majority of them out.”

“The majority?” Miles asked as his eyes narrowed. “Not all?”

She hesitated, and some of her excitement dimmed as she turned to Aaron. His eyes were dark, though; he already knew the answer. “The virus would destroy the Nanite consciousness and it would kill whichever Nano-controlled corpse we injected the virus into. But any other Nano-controlled bodies… they would probably survive.”

Miles sighed. “Swell.”

“But without the Nano consciousness, they would be just as vulnerable to attack as any other human,” Rachel said. 

“Meaning?” 

She shrugged. “By transporting themselves into corpses, the Nanites have activated a one-way link. Isn’t that right, Aaron?”

Aaron’s breath was unsteady––Miles could see the wheels turning in his head, Priscilla dancing before his thoughts––but Aaron spoke nonetheless. “Yeah, well… I think so. I mean, the Nano consciousness can heal and share information with the… with the corpses. But the Nano-controlled bodies have to verbally speak to share information back. In theory… Once the Nano consciousness is destroyed and that link is severed, the Nano bodies would essentially be human again. Just, you know, humans controlled by vicious, evil microscopic robots.”

Satisfied, Rachel turned back to Miles. “We could actually kill them and they wouldn’t be able to regenerate. We could hunt them down, like we did the Patriots.”

Miles blanched and took a step back. “Do you know how _long_ that would take?”

It was Aaron, however, who made him see reason. “I don’t think we have any other choice,” Aaron admitted. “I’m nowhere with this code. This is the best plan we’ve got.”

Miles pinched the bridge of his nose and stepped back. The Nano who had already downloaded into corpses would still have the ability to wreck havoc; it was less than ideal. But if it got Rachel on her feet again and destroyed the Nanites floating around in the air like creepy fireflies, then it wasn’t the worst plan he’d ever heard. “Okay. Do you think you can make this virus?”

Rachel hesitated, then looked to Aaron. “With a little help from the coding side, yes. We’d have to engineer the virus to have a fatal coded flaw to it—“

“Okay, science mumbo-jumbo. I get it,” Miles said as he held up a hand. “But you two, you think you can do it?” As one, Aaron and Rachel both nodded. “Great. Then I guess we’d better get to work.”

 

****

 

Two weeks into Bass, Gene, and Charlie’s journey to the Tower found the trio camped at the base of some mountains in the Plains Nation. Darkness had long since fallen on this part of the world, and Bass had volunteered to take first watch. Gene—who was utterly rubbish with any kind of firearm and therefore _never_ stood guard—had fallen fast asleep at the edge of camp within minutes. The long day’s ride had exhausted his older body.

Charlie, on the other hand, was busy tending to their horses before she too would turn in for the night. Or, at least, that had been her plan. But when she finished rubbing down her horse and moved towards her preferred sleeping space (just inside the circle of warmth created by the fire), Bass caught her eye. Without a word, he held up a bottle of whiskey that he’d been saving for an occasion like this. She hesitated for a moment, glanced down at her sleeping grandfather, and then walked towards him.

Without a word, he passed her the bottle as she sat on an overturned log next to him. Her lips were curled in a smirk as she took a sip, then passed the bottle back. Bass waited until she had settled in—her hands stretched out before the fire, face guarded, but mostly relaxed—before he spoke. “Ever play ‘Never Have I Ever?’”

She raised an eyebrow but kept her gaze on the fire. “Is this a card game?”

“Better,” Bass said, his voice gruff. “It’s a drinking game.”

“Ah. Should have known, coming from you.”

“It’s easy enough,” he said. In a slow circle, he began to swirl the whiskey in the bottle. “You name an activity. If you’ve ever done it, you take a sip.”

She rolled her eyes. “Is the winner the person who’s drinks the most or the least?”

“Depends, Charlotte,” he said, his voice low. He was tempted to turn and lock eyes with her, to see her cool blues staring back at him, but he restrained himself. “For example: never have I ever lived in Wisconsin.” He held the bottle out to her.

Her lips pursed into a wry smirk as she took the bottle. “You know I’ll win, right? Given the pre-Blackout life you led and I didn’t?” Nevertheless, Bass was pleased to see that she still took a sip of the whiskey, then handed the bottle back to him.

His voice was rough as his fingers brushed over hers when he took the bottle back. “But where’s the fun in that?”

For a moment, Charlie paused, her eyes trained on his, and didn’t say a word. She simply looked at his deep blue eyes that flickered with the firelight and met his teasing gaze head-on. There was a questioning look behind her eyes, like she almost wasn’t sure what was about to happen, but after a beat, she shook her head and looked away. “Fine,” she said. “Never have I ever taken dance lessons.”

He blinked in surprise and took a swig. “How did you know?" 

She held his gaze. “You were too graceful at the revel.”

“Son of a bitch,” he swore under his breath, before passing her the bottle. “Never liked to dance, but I had to. My parents put me in cotillion at a young age. Don’t ask,” he said when Charlie raised an eyebrow. “It was a hoighty-toighty Southern thing, meant to create young gentlemen.”

“I see how well that turned out.” 

Bass snorted in response, but he didn’t say anything. “Never have I ever had a stepmother.” Charlie’s eyes widened, and Bass quickly added, “Yeah, I heard all about her. And I know her name from Stay Puft. Maggie, right?” This is it, this was how he would learn more about Charlie, about her past and her life.

But Charlie didn’t say anything in response, but her pull from the bottle was long and her grip on the glass was tight. Bass was starting to regret bringing up Maggie—and this whole fucking game, to be honest—when Charlie said, “Never have I ever run a republic.”

Bass grabbed the bottle from her stiff fingers and tried to bring some levity back to the game. “With your logic, the Monroe Republic shouldn’t count because I was a piss-poor leader,” he said with a grin, but he took a sip anyway. It was just starting to dawn on him how badly this game could go––he wanted to get to know Charlie better, not antagonize her––and he needed something stupid, something with more levity than anything else. “Never have I ever dyed my hair.”

Charlie blinked, then slowly shook her head. She reached for the bottle, but stopped as Bass took a sip instead. “Wait,” she said, her eyes narrowing, “I thought you’re supposed to only say something you’ve never done.”

“Not at all,” Bass said. He set the bottle in the dirt between them, his elbows resting on his knees. “You just have to drink after everything you’ve done. If you want to make yourself drink, well then go right ahead,” he said, lips twisted into a smug grin. The drunker he was, the easier this would be.

She nodded for a moment, her gaze drifting over to the fire. Her eyes were hard, calculating. Bass had begun to panic when she looked at him with a steely stare and said, “Never have I ever fucked a man.”

Immediately, Charlie took a sip, then she held the bottle out to him. His mouth fell open and his face grew blank; it took him a moment to form a sentence. “I don’t know whether to be offended or amused.”

“Is that a no?”

“Quite definitively.”

She shrugged. “Interesting.” She fell silent, as though waiting for Bass to continue the game, but he only stared at her, waiting for some sort of explanation. After a long moment, she sighed and said, “Connor and I had a bet. He thought the reason you were so devoted to Miles was because you fucked him.”

Bass blinked and leaned back. “Aw jesus,” he muttered. “He’s like my brother.”

“You’re a murdering dictator, Monroe. How do I know fake incest isn’t one of your kinks?” For a moment, Bass was taken aback and a little upset. He opened his mouth—brows furrowed, eyes narrowed—only to find her lips pursed together in amusement and her eyes soft. 

Instantly, he scowled. “So you want to play, huh? All right, Goldilocks. Never have I ever fucked a woman.”

With a roll of her eyes, Charlie simply handed him the bottle. “Original.”

“Well I had to pry, didn’t I?” Of course, that was why he’d started this stupid game in the first place. But she didn’t need to know that.

Her lips curled into a snarl, but it lacked malice. “Never have I ever tattooed my fucking initials on my arm,” she said with a snicker. “Couldn’t remember your own name?”  


He took a drink, but was quick to point out, “It’s gone now, isn’t it?” Not that the burn along his forearm was any better to look at, but at least it hid the symbol of the old Republic—his mistakes, his ghosts—from him. He never had to look down and see his ugly past, only the bumpy burn and the memory of the physical pain of disfiguring the tattoo remained.

Charlie’s voice was tight. “Lucky.”

He paused, and it took him a moment to realize that she was speaking about the brand mark on her arm— _his_ mark. He swallowed and forced himself not to look down at her skin. “How’d it happen, anyway? I know you didn’t join.”

“Miles sent me. We were trying to save some kids.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter." 

But it _did_ matter; it was another part of her past that was tinged with pain and loathing towards him. It was one more reminder etched onto her body of how much he had failed and how unlikely it was he would ever be forgiven. He cleared his throat. “For the record… I’m sorry about that.”

Her eyes were hard, and her face was turned away from him and towards the fire. It felt as though the game had ended. Charlie was clearly offended and would probably retreat to her proverbial bed. Instead—eyes still on the fire—she said, “Never have I ever fucked a warlord.”

It had been his turn, but he didn’t care. The tension evaporated between them, and he found himself chuckling as he reached for the bottle. “You never screwed that high in the ranks, huh?”

She gave a curt shake of her head. “Mainly bartenders and foot-soldiers for me.” 

“Ah, you can do better than that,” Bass scoffed. “You’ve got to aim for a sergeant, at least.” 

“I’ll make note.” 

He grinned, laugh lines appearing around the edges of his eyes. “Never have I ever killed mercenaries in lingerie.”

Her eyebrows rose as she grabbed the bottle. “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.” Her shoulders were relaxed as she took a swig; if Bass didn’t know any better, he’d say she was enjoying herself. “I assume you mean New Vegas?” 

“Why? You in the habit of showing mercenaries your goods before you take them out?”

She titled her head to the side. “That guy wasn’t the only one who saw ‘the goods’ that night. Connor enjoyed them too.” Bass stiffened, but Charlie pretended not to notice because she said. “That’s a good one. Never have I have ever walked in on my naked kid, post-sex.”

She handed him the bottle, but instead of drinking from it, he slammed it down in the dirt. His face had morphed into a mask of fury—eyes burning, veins sticking out of his neck, lips pressed into a thin line—but Charlie simply raised a brow. “Monroe?”

“Why would you bring that up?” he demanded in a voice perhaps a little too loud. Charlie gave a quick glance over her shoulder in Gene’s direction; it was with great restraint that Bass lowered his voice. “Why? You like reminding me of that?”

“Of what? That Connor and I had a one-night stand?”

“That you two were anywhere near each other in that…” he trailed off with a shake of his head. “You think it’s _easy_ for me, knowing you fucked my son?”

“Since when are you a prude?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

She stood, her eyes now hard and fierce. “I seem to recall you telling Connor to go find a whore or two while he was there. Why do you care that I saved him some cash?”

“It bothers me, okay?”

“Why?”

“It does!” He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes darting to the fire. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest—he was too worked up about this; he needed to calm the fuck down. He swallowed and added, “You don’t know what it’s like, to find out your kid slept with your… fighting partner. It’s wrong. I wish you hadn’t.”

There was a pause, then Bass heard her sigh. Slowly, she sat back down beside him. For a moment, he wondered if this would be another one of those times when they didn’t speak, when they simply were. He didn’t think he could stand that; the longer they sat in silence, the more ridiculous he felt. Then, miraculously, Charlie spoke. “I bet it feels the same as learning your fighting partner banged your mom.”

Bass sat in stunned silence as her quip sank in, and before he knew it, he was laughing a bitter laugh. “Jesus. Must be awkward.”

“Must be.”

And though neither of them said it, there was a silent, mutual understanding that Bass sleeping with Rachel and Charlie sleeping with Connor would never be brought up between the two of them again. To be honest, Bass was okay with that; he liked that his transgression almost cancelled out hers. Almost. Or, at least, that’s what he thought.

Charlie spoke suddenly. “Never have I ever tried to kill myself.”

His head whipped around to stare at her in disbelief—he thought they’d cleared the air, and he’d told her about his suicide attempt in confidence; would she really be so cruel as to mock him for that now?—but then she took a sip from the whiskey bottle and he finally understood. He waited until the bottle was back in his hands before he asked, “What happened?”

She kept her eyes on the fire as she spoke. “It was after Jason…” She shook her head slowly. “I was numb. I didn’t want to feel. I wanted to die. I wanted to pay for what I’d done. So when Neville found me…” She looked him in the eye, and in that instant, Bass saw a reflection of uncertainty and vulnerability in her face. “I let him put a gun to my temple. I let him pull the trigger.”

Bass swallowed, unsure of what to say. She looked so strong, so confident now. But he’d seen her face in the days after Austin. He knew what her eyes looked like when she just couldn’t take it, and the thought that she’d been so far gone that she wanted to die—even worse, that he hadn’t _seen_ it—made him want to reach for her. But he knew Charlie would spurn any attempt at comfort. It wasn’t because she hated him; she was just the kind of girl that would rather hit you then let you hug her. So all Bass said was, “Connor mentioned… He told me you barely made it out alive.”

She scoffed, “Didn’t give you details, huh?" 

“Not very chatty, my kid,” he admitted. He paused, unsure of what to say next; the game was clearly over, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Her eyes softened as she turned back to the fire. “Yeah. Me too.”

They sat together that way for the next few hours in total silence, until Charlie’s eyes grew too heavy and she traipsed off to go to sleep. Bass couldn’t help but notice, however, that she slept closer to the fire—to him—than she usually did. And it wasn’t because it was cold outside.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which our favorite characters are reunited, will be posted eventually.


	23. Cold-Blooded: Act 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had time to write! And look, it only took me 6 weeks to update this time, not 6 months. Progress.
> 
> Thank you for your patience; I hope to update again in a couple of weeks.

Act 3

Once Aaron had stopped working on an electronic code that would destroy all aspects of the Nanites and instead began engineering something that would only impact the link to the Nanite consciousness, his work went a lot faster. In fact, over the course of three days, he managed to engineer an electronic code that he was sure—when combined with a biological virus—would definitely kill the Nanites.

The only problem was, once Aaron’s part of the process was finished, he didn’t have anything else to do but sit and wait for Rachel to complete the virus.

It was absolute torture; as the days went by, Aaron began to feel more and more hopeless, like this was a fool’s errand that would trap them in the Tower for years. Rachel, for all of her intellectual merit, wasn’t a doctor. She was a scientist (a scientist who knew a lot about biology and chemistry, but a scientist nonetheless); anatomy and viruses were outside of her realm of expertise. 

A week soon passed, and Aaron found himself with nothing to do but stare at the security camera feed from outside of the Tower. Priscilla had been standing there for the last three weeks. She lurked, head tilted up at the camera, waiting watching. Her eyes were cold and blank, and so unlike the Priscilla he had known, the woman he had loved. Miles and Connor couldn’t bring themselves to watch the security feed, to see her. Only Tom could stomach watching Priscilla’s corpse day-in and day-out, but he couldn’t be there 24/7. No, Aaron was the only one left standing guard by the monitors, and he almost resented everyone else for it. 

Nano-Priscilla wasn’t his wife; he knew that deep down. But there was something about the way she cocked her head to the side and stared straight into the heart of the camera that had Aaron doubting that Priscilla was truly dead. He knew it was impossible—he’d watched her die—but the thought of never seeing her face or hearing her laugh again haunted him.

Suddenly, there was movement on the security screen. He leaned forward, his eyes growing wide as Nano-Priscilla turned and began speaking to three newcomers. Newcomers, who were very human and had no idea what was going on. “Oh shit.”

 

“That’s the Tower?” Gene asked, his voice taking on an incredulous tone. “It’s… it’s all underground.”

“Yeah, bit of a misnomer,” Bass muttered as he pulled up on the reins. Beside him, Charlie pulled back as well, then swung her leg over the back of the horse and climbed down. Bass followed suit. His eyes scanned the world around them, looking for any signs of Miles and company. There were no pitched tents, no dying fires, no discarded supplies. Either Miles was inside or simply not here.

Gene fumbled off of the horse while Charlie looked for signs of life. She walked forward a few feet, her eyes trained on the ground. Then, without warning, she bent down and brushed her hand along the dirt. Bass handed his reins to Gene without a word. “See something?” he called out to Charlie.

“Aged tracks,” she said with a glance over her shoulder. “Very aged. A lack of rain is probably the only reason they’re still here.”

“Figures,” Bass muttered with a glance around. The mountains in the distance were covered with lush, green trees, but where they stood looked more like a desert. It was just like Rachel to help set up a secret bunker in an arid and miserable part of the country.

“There’s something else,” Charlie said suddenly. She pointed to the ground, and Bass moved closer so he could see. “The tracks… there are a lot of them. More than just Miles and the others.”

He frowned and stared down at the scuffed sand. Every few feet, he could make out a curved line—maybe a leftover boot print?—but in all honesty, he’d never been much of a tracker. That was Charlie’s area of expertise. He just had to take her word for it. “Like one or two extra people?” Miles could have picked up some stragglers.

She shook her head. “I mean like twenty or thirty people.” She locked eyes with him, her gaze hard. “Like an army.”

He swore under his breath and glanced back at Gene. The old man was struggling to tie the horses to a skinny, leafless tree; if Gene could barely do that, then he was in no shape to battle an army. If there was an army in the vicinity, it didn’t bode well for any of them. He lowered his voice and looked back at Charlie. “What are the chances they’re still here?”

She shrugged, but she too was now looking at her grandfather, concern apparent on her face. “They wouldn’t camp out here long term. Not enough food. Not enough shelter.” She glanced up at him. “But the mountains are only a couple miles away. If I were leading, I’d base my army there—“

“And leave a scout or two here,” Bass finished for her. He scowled, then reached for his pistol. Charlie stood up straight and drew her own gun. “All right,” he said as he headed back to the horses. They would need their packs—and all of the weapons that were inside—if an army was indeed nearby. “Let’s go.”

 

“Oh shit!” Miles snapped. He leaned forward, his eyes locked on the monitor in the control room. His hands were balled in a white-knuckled grip around the back of Aaron’s chair; when Aaron had run into the hallway screaming for help, Miles had assumed something bad was going on. He didn’t think it would be this bad.

He, Rachel, Tom, and Aaron were huddled around the monitors, staring in abject horror at the situation on the screen. Connor, meanwhile, was hovering awkwardly by the door. Miles assumed this was because the boy was still mad at his father.

“Charlie,” Rachel muttered, though the word was muffled from her hand covering her mouth. She clutched at Miles’s arm and pulled. “Miles, we have to save Charlie.”

“We will,” he said. “Aaron…” But he didn’t know what to say or do. Charlie, Monroe, and Gene hadn’t seen Nano-Priscilla yet; she was creeping around the shadows of the Tower bunker door and just outside of their field of vision. He saw as Charlie and Monroe both grabbed their guns, but the flash of relief he felt was only temporary; they wouldn’t suspect Priscilla. They would trust her, and it would kill them.

“We have to open the doors.” Aaron swiveled in his seat to look at Miles and Rachel. “It’s the only way.”

“If we do that, the Nano-controlled bitch will find a way in,” Tom said in a hard voice.

Rachel whirled, her face inches away from his. “We’re _not_ leaving my daughter out there to die!” she seethed. She dug a finger into his chest and continued, “We’ll shoot that damn Nano until it can’t move. We’ll kill it over and over again until my baby is safe and we can close the blast doors. Do you have a fucking problem with that?”

Neville did; Miles could see it on his face. And if he were being completely honest with himself, Miles would have to admit that he too had a problem with this plan. They didn’t know enough about the Nanites to know for sure that Nano-Priscilla wouldn’t find a way in. As long as they stayed sealed up inside the bunker, they were safe. But he wasn’t about to tell Rachel that Charlie needed to fend for herself; looking at Neville’s sneer, he knew the man had come to the same conclusion.

With a glare, Rachel spun around once more and locked eyes with Aaron. “Everyone get in position. We’re opening those doors _now_.”

 

When Bass, Charlie, and Gene rounded the corner and came into full view of the bunker doors, Bass had to resist the urge to raise his gun at the sudden appearance of Priscilla. She was smiling, her eyes happy as she moved towards them. His grip tightened on his gun; either Priscilla was in denial about the army that was probably camped nearby, or something wasn’t right. Bass felt Charlie shift a little next to him—so she’d noticed too—but Charlie followed his lead and kept her gun at her side.

“Thank god you’re okay,” Priscilla called out as she approached. “Rachel and Miles have been so worried about you.” Her words were calm, but she was walking too quickly. Bass and the others were within twenty feet of the bunker doors; Bass stopped walking and Charlie instantly paused as well.

Gene may have been a master doctor, but he was _not_ a good soldier. The old man kept walking towards her with outstretched arms. “Priscilla, it’s so good to see you!”

Annoyed, Bass threw out an arm and stopped Gene in his tracks. The old man looked down at Bass’s hand in surprise, but Bass kept his eyes locked on Priscilla. “What’re you doing out here?”

She didn’t stop walking towards them; if he hadn’t been suspicious before, he was definitely suspicious now. “Miles sent me. We have a different way in, one that the Nanites don’t know about.” She pointed to the rocky hillside around the back of the bunker and said, “Let me show you.”

Yeah, like that was going to happen. The word “trap” was practically branded on her forehead. Charlie thought so too. “Miles sent you,” she said slowly. “You. He didn’t come himself?”

Priscilla was only a couple feet away, and Bass forced himself to stay relaxed, to not make a move. She stopped in front of them, her wide grin still on her face, but she didn’t move in to hug Charlie or Gene. No, something was very, very wrong. “He’s protecting Rachel. I think they’re making a breakthrough. Come on. Let me show you.”

Oh, please. Over his dead body would he let Priscilla take them anywhere. But Bass simply gave a thin smile that showed his barred teeth and said, “Lead the way.”

Gene’s eyebrows were knitted together in confusion—he obviously had no idea what was going on—but he didn’t say anything as Priscilla turned her back and began to walk away from the bunker.

Charlie and Bass both had the same idea. As one, the minute Priscilla’s back was turned, Charlie and Bass dropped their backpacks and lunged for her.

But Priscilla had clearly expected an attack; she danced out of the way and turned, the smile dripping off her face. “Big mistake.”

Gene gasped and took a step back. “What—“

Priscilla lunged at Charlie, her arms outstretched, but Charlie was ready for her. She grabbed Priscilla’s shoulders and twisted her body, throwing her full weight at the small woman. Down they both went. Charlie straddled Priscilla’s waist and struggled to pin her arms above her head, but a swift kick in her back caused Charlie to jerk forward and fall. Priscilla pushed her off; swinging her arms wildly, she darted towards Charlie—

Bass slammed the butt of his gun against the back of her head. She collapsed and moaned—she was hurt, but for some reason, she wasn’t unconscious. Bass stood over Priscilla with his gun trained on her before he glanced at Charlie. She sat in the dirt rubbing her spine with her good arm, the one that hadn’t been shot a mere month ago. Bass winced; this probably wasn’t good for her rehab. “You okay?”

She nodded once and swiftly got to her feet. In two steps, she was beside him with her gun pointed at Priscilla as well. “What should we do with her?”

“Interrogation?” he supplied.

“Best plan we’ve got,” Charlie agreed.

A loud voice from behind them, however, reminded both Bass and Charlie that they weren’t alone. “What the _hell_ —“ Gene spat.

But he was cut off by the grinding sound of the bunker doors opening.

 

Connor was aware of the commotion near the main entrance to the Tower. He knew Miles, Rachel, and Neville were up near the doors ready to fire on Nano-Priscilla and take in Charlie and the others; he knew Aaron was down in the control room monitoring everything that happened. The reality was, Connor didn’t want part in any of it. 

Connor had no affection for Gene—he barely knew the old man—and he and his hadn’t exactly parted on good terms. The only person Connor cared about in their group was Charlie, and even then he wasn’t willing to risk his life for hers. He still felt as though Monroe and Charlie had abandoned him for Miles. In fact, out of their little team of people living in the Tower, Neville was the only one who really cared about Connor, about his well-being. He didn’t need to be around when more people who barely knew his name showed up.

Instead, Connor wandered around the Tower, exploring. He was a little surprised at how uninterested everyone had been in turning over every nook and cranny in the Tower. From what he understood, this place was an amazing fortress filled with wonders; why _wouldn’t_ Miles and the others want to learn everything they could about the Tower?

Whatever. He could explore on his own.

He wanted to stay away from the main floor, where Monroe, Charlie, and Gene would be entering, so he started his exploration on the same level as the control room. He knew there were a few bedrooms, an armory, and a lab or two on this floor. What he didn’t know was if they’d found everything yet.

As it turns out, they hadn’t; barely ten minutes after Connor started poking around, he walked by the elevator and turned on his heel. If he faced the hallway that led to the control room with his back to the elevator, he could just make out a large open space. And near the ceiling—if he squinted—it looked as though there was…

He stepped closer with raised eyebrows. Yeah, that was a ladder, all right, He had to jump in order to reach it, but he was able to pull himself up and into a small crawlspace. At first, Connor scowled. There was so much dust and dirt piled on the small ledge that rested between the two floors, but then his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and he realized that the crawl space led out to a catwalk.

Moving slowly, he followed the crawlspace to the catwalk, until he could stand again and look over the edge. He was perched, he realized, on a narrow ledge overlooking the elevator shaft. There was no other way down then the way he’d come, but he had a great view of the stairs and the elevator, and at anyone who would potentially come down. It was something he recognized as a tactical advantage, not that it would come in handy here.

He frowned and sat on the ledge, his feet dangling above the empty air below him. This really was a strange fucking place.

 

“Come on!” Miles shouted at Bass and the others from inside the doorway of the bunker. “Let’s go!”

Bass didn’t need to be told twice. “Grab the gear, Gramps!” He yelled out, causing Gene to jump into action. At his feet, Priscilla was starting to moan and stir; Bass whacked her once more with the back of his gun. He expected Charlie to protest his use of violence; instead, she bent down and looped one of her arms underneath Priscilla’s. Her eyes met his, and just like that, Bass grabbed Priscilla’s other shoulder. Together, the pair began to drag her towards the Tower.

It took a moment for the look of horror on Miles’s face to register with Bass, but by the time it did, Gene had already entered the bunker, and Charlie, himself, and Priscilla were close behind. “Wait—“ Miles said.

But then the three of them were inside and the doors to the Tower were closing behind them and Tom Neville pulled the trigger of his rifle and shot Priscilla in the head.

“ _What_!” Charlie called out, a note of distress audible in her voice. Bass moved towards her, but Miles grasped his shirt and pushed him back into the bunker doors. 

Charlie raised her gun level with Tom’s head, but Rachel stepped in front. “Calm down,” Rachel said, her voice eerily devoid of emotion. “Let me explain.”

“The _hell_ you can explain,” Charlie snapped. “Where’s Aaron?”

Bass’s attention was diverted back to Miles as the Matheson man shook him. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why would you bring her in here?”

He blinked. “Who? Charlie?”

“Priscilla!”

He opened his mouth to respond, but then Priscilla’s head started to glow with a faint yellow light, and just like that, Charlie lowered her gun and locked eyes with Bass. “We should have known,” she said simply.

He relaxed with a small shake of his head. Miles was only inches away from him, but all of his focus was on Charlie. “Wouldn’t have made a difference. Can’t kill her anyway.” He glanced back at Miles. “Would you let go?”

It was probably out of surprise that Miles did as he was asked. He stepped back, his brow furrowed. “What are you guys doing here?” he inquired, looking back and forth between Charlie and Bass.

Gene opened his mouth to explain, but Charlie held up a hand, stopping him. “We need to secure her. Then we can chit-chat,” she said in a cold voice. Rachel physically backed up at her daughter’s words, but Charlie had knelt down by Priscilla’s body. The healing was nearly complete, so without a second thought, Charlie pressed the gun into the back of her head and pulled the trigger. Rachel jumped, and Neville raised an eyebrow, but Charlie turned to look at Bass. “We can’t keep killing her all day. We need to put her somewhere she can’t escape.”

“There were shackles on one of the higher floors, right?” Bass asked. He turned to Miles, only to find his best friend staring at him with an open mouth. “Miles.” He snapped his fingers in front of his face, then repeated, “There are shackles here, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, there are.” He swallowed, then turned to Neville. “Tom, you want to—“

“Oh, it’s my pleasure.” Without hesitation, Neville slung Priscilla’s body over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry and began heading towards the staircase. “I’ll find you when I’m done,” he yelled back over his shoulder.

Bass could tell Miles had a lot of questions from the way looked at them with narrowed eyes, but before Miles could open his mouth, Charlie moved to stand next to Bass. Her shoulders were tense and her jaw was clenched tightly. She still held her pistol. “We’re trusting Neville now?”

“It’s a long story,” Miles said. “Charlie, how—“

But she turned to Bass, her eyes alert and determined. “What do you think? First Blanchard, now Priscilla. They don’t have a lot in common.”

“A connection to us,” Bass reasoned. It was easy to pretend no one else was here if he focused on her, only her. The way they spoke, the way they planned, it was so natural. “It could be a personal attack.”

“Or Miles,” Charlie countered. “He’s the more likely target. Better connected to the Rangers than us.”

Bass frowned. “Maybe. It could also be—“

“Hey!” The pair abruptly stopped talking and turned, surprised by the sudden volume at which Rachel Matheson had spoken. Her eyes burned with anger, and her fingers were trembling until she curled them into fists. She stomped over to the pair, stopping right in front of her daughter. “What is wrong with you? Can’t you say hello?”

If Rachel had thought this would make Charlie cower, she was dead wrong. Charlie didn’t even flinch; she leaned forward slightly and said, “It may have escaped your notice, Mom, but there are more important things going on right now.” Her eyes flickered over to Bass’s, and in the three seconds that she looked at him, he managed to read all sorts of emotions from her face: annoyance towards her mother, pain over the death of Priscilla, determination to fight and win, and even—if he wasn’t mistaken—a small glimmer of trust. 

But out of the corner of his eyes, Bass noticed Miles frown ever so slightly. Gene was already suspicious about his affection towards Charlie; he didn’t need Miles asking questions too. So Bass broke eye contact with her and turned to Miles. “So Tokyo Rose is dead. Is Jabba a goner too?”

Miles rolled his eyes. “Aaron’s fine. He’s downstairs.”

Charlie relaxed slightly at this—Bass wasn’t surprised; he knew she’d been worrying about him for the last few months—so Bass nodded and said, “Why don’t we debrief? Swap stories. Let Charlie go check in on the geek while you and I talk strategy.”

Bass knew that Charlie was anxious to talk with Aaron, but she immediately bristled at his words. “Any reason I’m being left out of the strategy talk?”

Miles opened his mouth, but Bass cut in with a quirked eyebrow. “I thought I’d save you the lengthy reading assignment and just give you the SparkNotes version of their dry as dirt tale,” he said as he nudged Miles with his foot. For a moment, Miles actually looked offended, but a small spark of humor was visible in Charlie’s eye. The joke was worth it. “Go find Aaron,” Bass said. “We’ll get you when the planning starts.”

“He’s in the control room,” Miles added.

Charlie didn’t reply; she simply nodded and brushed past her mother, towards the stairs. Rachel’s face fell. It wasn’t until Gene wrapped his arm around his daughter’s shoulders that she followed suit. Left alone, Miles turned to Bass, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “So. We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter, in which shit happens, will be posted likely in September.


	24. Cold-Blooded: Act 4

Act 4

Rachel was silent as she and Gene followed Charlie down to the control room of the Tower. She knew Charlie wasn’t happy with her for all the secrets and their penchant to come out. Rachel remembered the fight they’d had a few months back regarding her previous relationship with Monroe. She hadn’t expected a warm reception, but Rachel had hoped for at least a nod of acknowledgement. Instead, Charlie blatantly ignored her. Rachel bit the inside of her cheek as she followed Charlie down the stairs, her face growing more and more pinched with each floor they passed.

Gene clearly knew what she was thinking; he wrapped his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and whispered, “Don’t worry. She’ll come around.” Rachel’s answering smile was faint; she wasn’t so sure.

Charlie bounded down the last few steps and pushed through the stairwell door without holding it open for Gene and Rachel. Maybe once upon a time, Rachel would have bristled at such an action, but now she simply sagged her shoulders a little further. When Gene and Rachel finally caught up with Charlie in the control room, it was to find her throwing her arms around Aaron.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” she muttered as she squeezed his waist. “I was worried.”

“ _You_ were worried?” he answered as he pulled back. He was smiling, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes and his voice lacked warmth. “Do you know how freaked I was to see you out there on the monitors? I thought you’d fall for…” he trailed off, unsure of what to call it. “You know,” he mumbled at last. “I thought I’d have to watch you die.”

A soft, sad smile bloomed across Charlie’s face. Her eyes were bright with both compassion and sorrow; it was a look Rachel hadn’t seen from her daughter in a very long time, certainly never aimed towards her. “What happened, Aaron?” she asked, her voice gentle. “I thought Priscilla had been freed?”

His laugh was dark. He leaned back against the table that held the computer monitors and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, she was free,” he said. “She was fine, and Priscilla, and…” he swallowed, and when he spoke again, his voice wavered. “She died. The Nanites killed her, then reanimated her corpse.” Charlie’s eyes widened, and Aaron gave a dry laugh. “Oh, yeah. They can do that now. Living a sci-fi life is _fun_.”

“So she’s dead?” Charlie asked. Her voice was calm and steady, but her eyes held a touch of fear, like she didn’t want to hear his answer. “She can’t come back this time?”

“She’s dead,” he confirmed. Charlie’s eyes fell shut, and Aaron took the opportunity to ask a question. “How did you know? Out there, how did you know it wasn’t really her?”

Charlie opened her eyes. “She didn’t mention you. Not once.”

He sighed. “Figures.”

Rachel could tell Charlie had more questions from the way her eyes narrowed and she squinted up at Aaron. But after a moment, Charlie gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head and laid a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything—but then, Charlie had never been one to say much.

Gene, for his part, was more than happy to be a silent participant in this conversation, but he was apparently tired of awkwardly hovering in the doorway; he pulled out a chair at one of the tables and sat back with a small sigh of contentment. Rachel knew she should talk to her father—ask him how he was doing, how the trek to the Tower had been—but she couldn’t bring herself to turn her attention away from Charlie.

Aaron laid his hand over Charlie’s, then gave her a weak smile. “Hey, how did you find us, anyway? Did you go to Bradbury?”

“Oh. Um, no. Actually—“ she reached inside her shirt, gave a short tug, and pulled out the pendant Aaron had given her. His mouth fell open. “Funny story,” Charlie asked with a raised brow. “This thing… it started glowing and burning again three weeks ago. Don’t know why, but—“

“That was me,” Aaron confessed with a wince. “Sorry. There was static feedback and…” he trailed off at Charlie’s blank look. “You know, I could explain it—“

“I’m good.”

“Right.” He reached out and ran his hand along the etching of the pendant, a thoughtful look on his face. “Still,” he said under his breath, “it’s interesting that yours lit up like a homing beacon. I wonder if any other pendants reacted to the feedback…” Then with a sharp laugh, he dropped the pendant back against her shirt and added, “I wonder if any other pendants still exist.”

“We may never know,” Charlie said with a shrug.

Rachel could feel her heart breaking in two. Her daughter wouldn’t talk with her. Really, Charlie wouldn’t even look at her, and Rachel couldn’t fault her for this. Rachel knew she had been an absentee mother at best. She’d allowed herself to be persuaded to leave her children, to wallow in her own problems and actions instead of working to fix the future. She knew she had too many secrets and that these secrets often got in the way of her relationships. Hell, Rachel knew that she ran hot and cold—she was determined and take charge one minute, then frozen and broken the next. What she didn’t know was how to fix it, any of it. This was a bed of her own making—she had used up all of the chances provided to her—and now at best she would be a spectator to her daughter’s life.

She felt her eyes start to water, but she stubbornly tilted her head back. She would not cry, dammit. She’d shed enough tears in her lifetime over dead loved ones; so long as Charlie was alive, Rachel would not give up hope.

“Okay, your turn,” Aaron said as he swung his arms down to drum on the table. “You’ve got the gist of my shitty quest. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

Charlie gave a nonchalant shrug. “I got shot.”

Rachel knew she should play it cool, but she couldn’t help the screech that flew from her mouth. “ _What_?”

 

“She got _shot_?” 

Bass held up both of his hands in front of him. He was silently glad Miles was sitting at the other end of the table, because the man looked ready to knock Bass out. Miles’s eyes were wide and his teeth were barred in fury. “She’s fine, Miles,” Bass said in an even tone. “Rehabbed and everything.”

“She got shot, and you think she’s _fine_?” Miles spat. The incredulousness was even more prominent in his voice now. “I told you to keep her safe, dammit. Not lead her off on some crazy-ass killing spree around Texas and nearly get her killed.”

Bass couldn’t help it; he rolled his eyes. “Well that’d be a pretty specific order, Miles. The only way you’d have given it to me was if you had a crystal ball.”

But Miles Matheson was in no mood for Bass’s sass. He slammed his hands down on the metal table in front of him and stood. “So help me, Bass, if she’s traumatized or handicapped in any way—“

“I took care of her,” he replied. His voice was steely and hard but even as he looked at his best friend. As if Bass wouldn’t do everything possible to keep Charlie safe. “Just like I promised. She got hurt, but I made _damn_ sure she got better.”

For a moment, Miles’s face screwed up into a questioning look. His eyes narrowed in on Bass’s and they traced his features, as though they were looking for a sign that Bass was either lying through his psychotic teeth or telling the truth. The longer Miles looked at him, the more uncomfortable Bass became. Sure, he wanted Miles to see he had protected Charlie, but Bass didn’t want Miles to glean any other information. Still, filled with determination, Bass did not blink or look away until Miles sighed and sat. “Okay,” he said, though his jaw was clenched tight, “she got shot. What else happened?”

Bass placed his hands flat on the table—fingers spread wide open in what he hoped was an honest gesture—and relayed most of the last two months to Miles. Bass mentioned Charlie’s restlessness standing sentry for the Texas Rangers and how he had feared she would do something stupid. He talked about their small raiding parties and scouting missions throughout western Texas. Of course he went into detail about the day Charlie was shot and the way in which Gene had facilitated her rehab, and Bass told the story of Duncan and how she was alive and leading a new war clan. Bass even gave Miles the run-down of their journey to the Tower.

What Bass _didn’t_ share, however, were the little moments: the way he and Charlie had danced together at a revel in an effort to disappear within the small town of Rosebud… the way Duncan had confronted him about his blatant attraction towards Charlie and he hadn’t bothered denying it… the way his heart had frozen at the sight of Charlie lying motionless and shot by a fucking Patriot… the way he’d tenderly held her in his arms as he carried her through camp… the way he’d visited her everyday in the medical tent… the way he’d orchestrated a game of “never have I ever” just so he could spend time with her and learn more about her… Oh, Sebastian Monroe already knew he was going to hell for this; he didn’t need Miles to tell him that. 

Thanks to his handy, well-sculpted omissions, Bass reached the end of his tale to find Miles nodding thoughtfully—instead of plotting murder—before saying, “Well, hell. I don’t know who’s had the more interesting couple of months. You or us.”

“Depends on your definition of interesting,” Bass said with a raised brow. “Of course, it would be helpful if I knew what you’ve all been through.”

Miles sighed. “Yeah… about that.” His eyes were downcast and out of focus again; instantly, Bass was on high-alert. Miles was only this cagey when he was delivering unpleasant news. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something you’re not going to like, and I need you to promise to stay calm.”

Inside, Bass’s heart started to beat as though someone had taken the Energizer Bunny and shoved it through his chest. However, on the surface, Bass kept his face neutral and simply said, “What, Miles?”

“It’s about Neville,” he said, speaking slowly. “How we came across him. It’s a… funny story—“

“I was wondering when you’d get to that,” Bass said as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why is the weasel with you?”

“Well…” And again, Miles’s eyes were locked on a spot just behind Bass’s head. “We came across Neville in Bradbury. Actually, it was outside of Bradbury. He was about to be executed by the Nanites. Until we saved him.”

Bass snorted. “You’re too nice. I’d have let the bastard swing.”

“Yeah, see we were going to, but we figured you’d never get over it if we let Neville’s companion die.” With a sigh, Miles finally met Bass’s confused gaze head-on. “Connor was traveling with Neville to Bradbury—“ Bass’s eyes went wide, “—and Connor was there when Neville did what he does best and pissed off the Nanites. Connor was about to be executed too, until we saved him.” Miles took a raggedy breath—Bass was far too silent—then he pressed on. “We had Connor come with us to keep him safe. He’s here, Bass.”

A few more seconds of silence penetrated the small room—just long enough for Miles’s muscles to relax—before Bass jumped to his feet and all hell broke loose.

 

It didn’t take Charlie long to tire of the happy reunion in the Tower’s control room. It wasn’t that she hated seeing Aaron or even her mother again; on the contrary, she was glad to see them both alive and relatively unharmed. No, what made Charlie feel restless and itching to leave was the bunker in and of itself. She was trapped underground, surrounded by steel, concrete, and metal with only one way out, a way that the Nanites knew about. She felt pinned down, like she was in the crosshairs of a sniper, and the whole thing had her chest tightening and her breath coming in short little gasps.

With what passed for a nonchalant shrug, Charlie asked where Miles and Monroe were holed up. She noticed the way her mom’s eyes widened—it looked like Rachel wanted to follow after her, as if she needed protection—but Gene laid his hand on her arm while Aaron gave her directions, and Charlie was able to leave in peace.

These was something odd about wandering through the dark halls of the Tower by herself. The last time she’d been here, her jeans had been stained with Nora’s blood, and she’d watched the world end a second time around, thanks to Randall. The _clang_ her boots made against the concrete floor was unsettling, and she felt a lump form in her throat. The Tower was too small, the lights too bright, the world too artificial. What she wouldn’t give to be stabbing at the Patriots right now.

A sharp gunshot from further down the hall rang out, causing Charlie to flinch and drop to her knees. Less than a moment later, her instincts kicked in; she pulled her handgun out of the waistband of her jeans and ran forward, trying to soften the sound of her footsteps as much as possible.

At the end of the corridor, she slowed, then paused, then pressed her back to the wall. In a slight crouch, she peered around the corner… only to see an ajar door that led to a prison—or at least Charlie assumed that’s what it must have been, given the shackles hanging on the wall—and Tom Neville standing over the body of Priscilla. His gun rested on a footstool beside him, and his hands were busy securing the shackles around Priscilla’s wrist, pulling them as taunt as possible so Priscilla had no slack.

Neville didn’t seem to notice Charlie until she stood behind him, close enough for her breath to gently brush against his arm. Charlie wasn’t sure how, but without looking, Neville seemed to know it was her. “I see you’re done being a mama’s girl,” Neville said. His eyes were focused on the chains as he screwed them even tighter into the wall.

“I stopped being a mama’s girl years ago.”

A sharp snort was all she received in response, but that was okay. Her eyes were drawn to Priscilla—the body of Priscilla, she had to remind herself—and the way her dark hair hung limply in front of her face. Seeing her like that, dead and broken, it was easy to forget it wasn’t Priscilla at all, but was instead the Nanites, the same Nanites that wiped out most of the world. If she had only known back in August—back when Aaron, Miles, and her mother had departed from camp in Austin—that it would be her last time seeing Priscilla alive, then maybe things would be different. Maybe she would have asked Priscilla to stay behind, or at least paid more attention to the woman and said a proper goodbye. Instead, Charlie had to watch her die over and over again. She swallowed and forced herself to look away.

“Is there something you want?”

Neville’s casual voice regathered Charlie’s attention, and she spoke in a cautious tone. “It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other. Not since the train yard.”

She watched as Neville’s movements became stiff—her hand instinctively drifted towards her gun—but he only said, “Go on.”

She hesitated, then continued. It was something that had been bothering her since she laid eyes on Neville inside the Tower, something that made her wary about working with him. “We’re here for the same reason.”

Still, he did not look at her. “Are we?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm. “To win.” At that, Neville turned. His eyebrows were raised, lips pressed pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t look hostile or upset. Not overtly so, in any event. Charlie kept her voice cool. “Is that a problem?”  
His tone was stiff, his eyes cold, but Charlie somehow still believed him when he cocked his head to the side, gave a Cheshire cat grin, and said, “Not at all.”

Her nod was curt as she turned on her heel. The sound of chains rattling behind her, however, made her pause. “You should shut this,” she said with a quiet tap on the door. “The gunfire makes it sound like… like we’re being attacked.”

She knew she wasn’t imaging his light chuckle underscoring his words as he replied, “Oh, well of course then.”

Still, Charlie did not turn around. Instead, she gripped the doorknob and pulled, slamming the door shut behind her. As she walked off down the hall and towards where she hoped Miles and Monroe would be, the muffled sound of gunfire rang out behind her.

 

“I don’t understand. Why is she still upset?” Rachel asked her father with a furrowed brow. The pair were walking down one of the long, dark hallways in the Tower, an endless labyrinth of broken lighting and cold air that led, eventually, to the building’s medical center. Ideally, now that Gene was present, he would be able to assist in crafting the virus––he had more medical knowledge than she did, after all. But it was Charlie that filled her thoughts and distracted Rachel––after all of the months she’d spent apart, her own daughter still wanted nothing to do with her. “I haven’t seen her in so long––“

“That may be part of the problem,” Gene acknowledged with a sigh. “She’s spent the past few months with Monroe.”

“And?”

“And they’ve spent almost all of their time together. Running missions, eating meals, hell, he even visited her every damn day after she got shot.” Gene shook his head and glanced at his daughter. “To be honest, it worries me.”

Alarm bells were going off in Rachel’s head, but she struggled to wrap her thoughts around why. Charlie hated Monroe. Even if he was trying to worm his way into her good graces, there was no way she’d let him… right? “What worries you?”

“I don’t trust his motivates,” Gene confessed. “And… I don’t trust her to not fall for his… god, do I have to call it charm?”

At that, Rachel couldn’t help but chuckle. “Charlie? Fall for his charm? No, no way. She’s too smart for that.”

“She’s your daughter. She follows in your footsteps.”

Rachel stopped walking, her eyes wide. “That doesn’t mean she’ll _sleep_ with him. He’s responsible for her brother’s death!”

“Then why can’t this family seem to shake him, hmm?” Gene wrapped his fingers around her shoulder with a shake of his head. “You think she blames him for that? You think that makes her disgusted with him? Because she still hunts, and fights, and eats, and talks all night by the fire with him.” Gene let go of her arm. “If your daughter hated Monroe, she couldn’t do that, any of it. And you know it.”

Rachel opened her mouth––there was no way Charlie could forgive Monroe, none; she just had to prove it––but then Connor rounded the corner, his eyes widening at the sight of Gene, and suddenly, she had a new problem to deal with.

“So you let them in?” Connor said, his words terse. “My dad too?”

Rachel swallowed. “You should find him.”

With a snort, Connor shook his head. “Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

 

The metal hinges creaked and groaned as Charlie opened the door to one of the meeting rooms––rust and disuse made the door heavy and hard to pull––but she was able to step inside and drop the handle. It slammed shut behind her (perhaps a little more forcefully than she’d intended), the noise echoing throughout the silence in the room as Monroe and Miles stared at her.

“What?” she asked in a rough voice, annoyed. They sat together at a small table, Monroe cocking an eyebrow with a cheeky little shit-eating smirk, while Miles’s lips were pursed together in either irritation or worry, she couldn’t be sure. With a roll of her eyes, she pulled back a chair and joined them. “Spit it out.”

“Are you okay?” Miles asked, drawing the words out slowly.

“Peachy.”

“Your shoulder. You got shot?”

She sighed and gave Monroe an accusatory look, but the bastard just snorted in response. “I’m fine.” She glanced back and forth between the two men, then added. “And you? What have you and my mom been up to since you left Texas?”

Miles’s mouth opened, but Monroe beat him to the punch. “I’ll give you the _Reader’s Digest_ version,” he drawled, laying his hand flat on the table. “The Fantastic Four made it to Bradbury, found a Nanite-controlled town about to execute Neville and my son––“ Charlie’s eyes widened, but Bass pressed on, “––They swooped in to play hero, Priscilla died and was reanimated as a Nanite puppet from hell, so the A-Team headed for the Tower––pursued by a Nano horde––they found a secret entrance and sabotaged it behind them so the Nano couldn’t follow, and then hid. In here. Trying to find… some way to end the insanity.”

There was a beat as Charlie searched for words, before she finally said, “Oh. Is that all.”

“Rachel and Aaron are working on a virus,” Miles said with a slight shake of his head. His voice was weary and quiet, like he hadn’t slept in weeks––in fact, knowing him, he probably hadn’t. There’s no way Miles trusted Neville to keep watch for long. “They have a plan to stop the Nanotech.”

“I thought a virus wouldn’t work,” Monroe said.

“A computer virus won’t. A biological virus will.” Both Charlie and Monroe simply stared at him, uncertain exactly what that meant, and Miles sighed. “It’s a long story. Just go with it.”

“Whatever you say.”

“So the plan is, what? We just kick up our heels and wait?” Monroe’s brow furrowed, his lips parted as he stared at Miles. Maybe it was the lighting, but his skin looked soft to Charlie, and his wrinkles seemed few and far between.

“No,” Miles replied. “We do whatever we can to help Rachel and Aaron––and Gene, I guess––finish the virus.”

“So we wait,” Charlie drawled. Monroe let out a snort of laughter, his eyes twinkling with good humor as she met his gaze. Next to her, Miles’s brow furrowed as his head swiveled to look back and forth between the pair.

“No,” Miles said at last, drawing their attention back to him. “We don’t wait. We plot.”

“This ought to be good,” Monroe said with a smirk. “What, Miles, are we plotting?”

His voice held bite as he answered. “We have to figure out how to round up the rest of the Nano-zombies after we infect and kill Priscilla with the virus.”


End file.
